


Drabbles

by Katie (katieandsav)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlets, M/M, katie's shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 30,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katieandsav/pseuds/Katie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Anonymous asked: dude if you write a fic where cas has a wing tattoo ill literally marry you</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. ink

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: dude if you write a fic where cas has a wing tattoo ill literally marry you

After Cas fell, he seemed a little smaller. He’d hug his trench coat closer around himself; he’d stand in the corners of rooms rather than in the centre; he’d crawl closer to Dean at night.

Dean didn’t mind the last one, of course. Cas had taken to sleeping only in his boxers at night (upon Dean’s suggestion—before, he’d just wriggled around uncomfortably in the sweltering heat), so as he curled into the hunter, Dean had the opportunity to trace the patterns that spiraled along his arms and across his back. 

After his fall, Cas had seemed so… lost. No matter where he was, he looked out of place, with his gaze downturned and his head ducked. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin.

One night, he had come back with bandages covering his back and arms. Dean had been anxious at first, worried Cas had got hurt, but Cas had reassured him that he was fine. And a couple days later, when he finally took off the bandages, Dean’s eyes widened with awe. 

Castiel’s left arm was sleeved with swirling letters that Dean recognised to be Enochian entwined with vines of red roses. Cas told him that they were the names of all those he’d cared about and lost. (One night, months later, Dean asked Castiel to show him all the names. He’d expected Anna, the Harvelles, Bobby and even Gabriel and Balthazar to be there, but he was surprised to find John and Mary’s names written carefully among the roses, too. When Dean asked him about them, Cas said that, without them, Dean would not have existed—and therefore, they were two of the most important human beings to ever live.)

Castiel’s right arm bore only one tattoo—that of a handprint. “A companion to yours,” he explained. 

But the tattoos on Castiel’s back were the most breathtaking feature: A pair of dark wings folded down from his shoulder blades, the delicate feathers of the tips curving around his waist to brush his hipbones; he appeared to be wrapped in their embrace. Between the wings, down his spine, was more Enochian. When Dean asked what it said, Cas chuckled and told him, “It says ‘Team Free Will’. An ex-blood junkie, a dropout with six dollars to his name, and Mr Comatose. I believe it’s an accurate summation of our ragtag trio.” 

Finally, between his shoulder blades was an anti-possession symbol to match Dean’s own. Unlike Dean’s, however, it was surrounded by more red roses, like the centerpiece of a bouquet. 

Dean loved Cas’ tattoos; he loved to touch them, to trace them, to kiss them. He didn’t understand why he adored them so much, at first—while he’d never found tattoos to be a turn-off, they weren’t an immediate turn-on, either—but around a year after Castiel had first got them, Dean realised. 

The tattoos were everything Castiel wanted to say but never knew how to.


	2. tell me what you want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: I always have this idea of cas dancing around in his room with headphones on to something really cheesy and the brothers find him and think it's the most hilarious thing in the world

“ _So, tell me what you want_  
 _What you really, really want!_  
 _I’lll tell ya what I want_  
 _What I really, really want!_  
 _I wanna—ha!—I wanna—ha!—I wanna—ha!—I wanna—ha!_  
 _I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig—ah…_ ”

Dean looked up at the sound of the tuneless singing. It was so off-key that Dean barely even recognized the song—however, it was loud, and those lyrics were unmistakable. He glanced across the table to see that Sam, too, had raised an eyebrow.

"Are you hearing this?" Dean asked.

"I’m hearing it," Sam replied slowly. 

"And do you recognise the voice too?" 

"Yep." 

"Jesus Christ." 

They both got to their feet and, lead by Dean, tentatively approached Castiel’s room. As Dean laid a hand on the handle, he shut his eyes. 

 _Please, god, let this be a dream,_ he prayed silently. Then, he opened the door and found out that it was not, in fact, a dream. Because, despite his vivid imagination, Dean could  _never_  dream up the scene that played out before him. 

In the centre of the bare room was a bed. And on top of that bed was an angel of the Lord, a death-defying, deadly creature, who was currently shaking his betrenchcoated ass along to the tune of a Spice Girls song which he belted out at the top of his lungs. Upon Castiel’s head was a pair of bright pink, bedazzled Hello Kitty headphones that were attached to an equally-pink, equally-sparkly iPod.

The Winchester brothers looked at each other, eyes wide. 

"Is he… possessed?" Sam asked, bewildered. 

"For once, I wish demons were just screwing with us." Dean turned his gaze on Castiel again.

Cas, who had apparently not noticed the two staring brothers since his eyes were shut, continued to sing with happy obliviousness.

“ _So, here’s a story from A to Z_  
 _You wanna get with me, you gotta listen carefully_  
 _We got Em in the place who likes it in your face_  
 _You got G like MC who likes it on a…_  
 _Easy V doesn’t come for free, she’s a real lady_  
 _And as for me, ha—you’ll see!”_

 _“_ Cas,” Dean said measuredly. 

“ _Slam your body down and wind it all around  
Slam your body down and wind it all around…”_

"Castiel," Sam repeated, louder this time.

"… _Make it last forever, friendship never ends…”_

“ _Castiel!_ " the brothers yelled in unison. Cas stopped short in his "sprinkler" dance move, then slowly turned to face Dean and Sam. His face was expressionless.

"Hello, Dean, Sam," said Cas, nodding at the brothers and dropping his hands. He removed the headphones. "I didn’t see you there. You require my service?" 

"Uh, no," Dean said, because Sam was now laughing so hard that he had doubled over. "Nice, uh, dance moves. So you like the Spice Girls?" 

"Baby Spice is particularly talented," Cas replied seriously as he got off the bed. "I admire her work."

"Right," Dean said as he shot Sam a look and nudged him in the ribs with a mumble of, "Try to control yourself, will ya?"

Sam only laughed harder.

"Charlie left her music device behind," Castiel offered by way of explanation when he saw Dean staring at the pink iPod in his hand. "I was curious as to how it worked. Would you like to listen for a while, Dean?" he asked, offering the iPod to Dean.

Dean almost jumped back. “No thanks, Cas. I’m good. Maybe you should just, er, go eat a burger or something, alright?” 

Cas nodded. “Can I bring the device?” 

"Whatever floats your boat, man." 

Castiel full-on beamed at him and wandered past the two, happily singing, “ _If you wanna be my lover…”_  to himself. Sam lost it even further nearly fell over; to steady himself, he leaned against Dean because he’d apparently forgotten how big he was. But because Sam was, in fact, built like a goddamned brick shithouse, Dean was promptly knocked off his feet and, before he could move, Sam was sprawled on top of him.

As Dean lay there beneath his cackling moose of a brother and listening to an angel singing along to the Spice Girls, he looked up at the ceiling and silently asked whoever was out there,  _Why me?_


	3. dean's the new kid and michael's a douche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: oh man oh man lil prompt idea!! cas and dean are high schoolers, and dean finds himself surrounded by bullies he'd normally be able to beat but then cas comes along and kicks the bullys' butts and then the two become friends idk man cliche as hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't write high school aus omg wow this is bad

Dean turned in a slow circle, barely biting back the profanities he wanted to unleash.

There were eight, maybe nine of ‘em, all their ugly mugs contorted into sneers. They’d caught him as he was leaving school, just as he’d entered the parking lot. 

Dean adjusted his backpack. He was tired and, for once, not in the mood for a fight; all he wanted to do was pick up Sammy, get home, and make himself a sandwich. But, because nothing ever seemed to go right in his life, a bunch of kids who’d apparently declared him Public Enemy Number One had swooped in like vultures, trapping him in a circle. He still had no goddamned clue what he’d done wrong.

 ”Look,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “I’m sorry for stepping on your toes or whatever, but how’s about we act like adults and put the past behind us, huh?” 

"You see, Dean, we can’t let you get away that easily," the Head Douche said, examining his nails. Dean thought his name might’ve been Michael—he wasn’t sure, however, because he’d only arrived at this hellhole of a school the day before. Once again, he had no freakin’ clue what he’d done wrong. Now, he was losing patience.  

"How d’you know my name?" Dean asked slowly. 

"You see, Deany, you’re quite popular," a blonde girl beside Michael crowed. She looked almost too young to be in high school. "Especially among the ladies, what with the things you say being almost as pretty as that face of yours." She giggled childishly. Dean had to resist the urge to gag. 

"Lilith’s right, Dean," continued a boy. This one, Dean recognised as Michael’s little bitch, Zachariah. After one day, Dean already knew the silvery-haired kid practically fell over himself to impress the Mayor of Dicksville. "You see, Michael doesn’t like it when some Bozo waltzes in and tries to steal what’s rightfully his." 

Michael dropped his fake smile. “Keep your grubby hands off Hael, Winchester.” 

Dean stopped short. “Who, the blue-eyed chick? Jesus Christ,  _that’s_  what this is about? I smiled at her. It’s called being friendly, asshat. Look it up.” 

Michael’s handsome face looked very ugly when he said, “That’s it. Uriel, Raphael, teach him a much-needed lesson, please.” 

Two large boys leapt forward, one grabbing Dean by the shoulder. He managed to shove him off, but the other caught him just as he did so. 

"You should learn the rules, boy," the one that had caught him—Uriel?—growled into his ear. He spun Dean around and pulled his fist back until someone yelled, " _Michael_.” 

Uriel seemed to be distracted by the sound; Dean took the opportunity to knee him in the groin and yank free. Michael, still glaring at Dean, inhaled deeply. “Castiel,” he said tersely, “this is not your fight. Walk away.” 

"Until I’m certain you’re not targeting someone simply for your own enjoyment—which you have a tendency to do, I’ve noticed—I’ll consider this my fight," Castiel replied. He came into view, brusquely pushing between two of Michael’s lackeys to stand beside Dean. 

Lilith stared at him. “Leave, Castiel,” she said coolly. “You’re not welcome here.” 

"Interesting," Castiel replied. "For I have decided that I am. What’s going on?" 

Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he could see the boy that must’ve been Raphael creeping up behind Castiel. He was just about to warn him when Castiel jerked his elbow back, hard, straight into Raphael’s stomach. Castiel’s expression didn’t change. 

Raphael released a strangled sound, stumbling back and clutching his torso.

"I asked—" started Castiel, slowly and deliberately, before turning and swinging his fist at Uriel’s nose, resulting in a sickening crunch. Despite his size, Uriel practically flew back as he was knocked off his feet. "—what was going on here." He glanced back at Michael, Zachariah and Lilith. 

Zachariah blinked the heap on the ground that was Uriel, then whirled around and full-on ran away from the group. Dean tried his best not to smirk as he watched Zachariah hauling ass away from Castiel. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

"You want to know?" Michael snapped. "Dean overstepped. If he wants to survive at this school, he’d best know where the line is drawn. We’re doing him a kindness, really."

"Is that so?" Castiel asked lowly as he approached Michael. The other boy, for what it was worth, held his ground. "Michael, if I’m not mistaken, you were not the one who was victorious in our last skirmish. I believe that if you wish to keep your pride in tact, you’d best drop this petty grudge you seem to hold against Dean here."

Michael glowered at him. “How  _dare_ you speak to me like that?” he said. 

Castiel drew his fist back again before slamming it straight into Michael’s jaw. “The same way I could do that,” Castiel replied matter-of-factly as Michael stumbled back, lifting a hand to his already-bruising jaw. “Michael, just because you’ve declared yourself king doesn’t mean you are one.” 

Castiel briefly turned his gaze on the only other one of Michael’s buddies that hadn’t run off, Lilith, before saying sharply, “Now,  _leave_.” 

Michael clenched his jaw and backed away. “You’re going to regret this, Castiel.” 

"Then so be it." 

Michael turned and strode off. After a moment of indecision, Lilith followed him. 

Castiel watched them go, then looked at Dean. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his blue eyes now gentle. 

"Nope. You arrived just in time. Like some sorta valiant knight," Dean laughed. 

Castiel smiled slightly. “I’m Castiel,” he said.

"Nice to meet ya, Cas. I’m Dean."


	4. bedhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Gabe waking up with bed head and getting really worried about it because Sam always has perfect hair so he tries to avoid him

Gabriel was awoken by a vague rumble that, as the last dregs of unconsciousness drifted away, became a voice. It was slightly muffled, of course, due to the fact that Gabriel had snuggled down in the duvet in such a way that no light whatsoever could filter through. 

"…going for a run," he heard Sam say. "I’ll be back in around twenty minutes. And, uh, Gabriel? Please at least  _try_  to drag yourself out of bed before I get back.”

Gabriel grunted, lifting the blanket a little to peer out at Sam. The hunter looked pretty hot, cleanly shaven with his sleeveless shirt and his dark hair shining gold in the early morning light. Gabriel smirked sleepily. That was a nice wakeup.

 

Sam leaned down to give him a little wave. “Bye, Gabe,” he said. 

Gabriel grunted again and dropped the blanket, curling up. 

"Love you," Sam called as he walked out. 

"Bring me chocolate," mumbled Gabriel. A couple minutes later, he shoved the blankets off himself with a quiet huff of exertion, stretching out and squinting in the light. He got to his feet and stumbled off to the bathroom to comb his hair.

Recently, Sam had told him to be less reliant on his magic. Gabriel thought this was incredibly dumb, but obliged nonetheless because Sam had done the puppy-dog thing and, well, he couldn’t resist. 

So far, it’d been easy—ask Sam to get him candy and plead Dean (who was apparently Rachael Ray at heart) to make him burgers whenever Sam got on his case about not being able to eat only candy for the rest of life (ha!). The most irritating thing, Gabriel found, was shaving. He still hadn’t really got the hang of it. 

But now, Gabriel stared at his reflection in horror. “I look like I’ve been electrocuted!” he said aloud, reaching up his hand to touch his wild mane of hair tentatively. He tried to smooth it down, but it bounced up the moment he lifted his hand. Gabriel realised that, thousands of years after coming into existence, he was experiencing his first bad hair day. 

“ _Crap_ ,” he swore. He almost snapped his hair into place, but caught himself as he remembered his promise to Sam. With a groan, he grabbed a comb and tried to tug it through his hair. However, this only seemed to make it frizzier. 

Gabriel looked around frantically. Sam couldn’t see him like this. Mr Perfect Hair would most definitely piss himself laughing at Gabriel’s wild ‘do, and that was the worst thing imaginable. Eventually, Gabriel located a snapback cap hanging off the hook on the door. It had the logo of some sports team on it; he paid the logo no mind as he yanked the cap onto his head. After glancing briefly in the mirror, he decided he looked exceedingly ridiculous and needed a new hat. He walked out to his and Sam’s bedroom again to find another hat; as he did so, there was the sound of a door swinging shut. 

Surely, Sam couldn’t be back  _already_? Gabriel’s question was answered by Sam’s call of, “I’m home!”

Gabriel panicked a moment, scrambling into a cupboard and pulling the door shut. There was the sound of approaching footsteps and, a couple moments later, Sam opened the cupboard. 

The two blinked at each other. 

"Gabriel," said Sam slowly, "why’re you in our wardrobe?" 

"I thought a game of hide-‘n’-seek would be fun," Gabriel replied nonchalantly. "You win."

"Uh. Okay. And why are you dressed like a prepubescent boy?" 

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." 

"I’m talking about this," Sam said, reaching for Gabriel’s cap. Gabriel swatted his hand away, clamping the hat down protectively. 

"These things are swaggy, according to that Justine Bieber chick. I’m trying to be swaggy for you, Sammo," he explained. "Don’t you want a cool boyfriend?" 

Sam stared at him, then released a huff of laughter. “You do realise Justin Bieber’s a boy, right?” 

"Huh? Why’s his voice so high, then?" 

Sam shrugged. “Just is, I guess. C’mon, Gabe, take that hat off. You look stupid.” 

"No!" Gabriel protested, but Sam had already plucked it off his head. He reached up to hide his hair, but the expression on Sam’s face told him he’d already seen it. Gabriel dropped his hands, averting his gaze. "I know, I know, my hair looks awful. I can’t get it to look right. Just… give me the hat back, okay? And don’t make fun of me or I’ll turn you into an actual moose."

Then, Sam did something unexpected. He picked Gabriel up off the ground, Gabriel wrapping his legs around the hunter’s waist, and kissed him for a moment. “I think you look absolutely adorable when you’re all ruffled from sleep,” Sam told him with a little smile.

Gabriel looked down, unable to control his own grin. “Well, jeez, Sammy, you’re making me blush.” He glanced up. “Did you bring me any candy?” 

Sam rolled his eyes and picked up a plastic bag on the floor beside him that Gabriel hadn’t noticed before. “Will I regret my decision?” 

Gabriel immediately grabbed a large bar of chocolate. “Yep!” he replied cheerfully as he ripped the wrapper off the chocolate and took a huge bite.


	5. valentine's surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gabrielscupcake asked: WEEEE SABRIEL FICLET where its near valentines day and gabriel is trying to seduce sam with cheesy/ridiculous gestures etc and sam is not taking him seriously except gabriel is serious and then kiss kiss bang bang *dances around*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the passive narrative

For all Gabriel’s talents, romancing was not among them. 

Sam couldn’t deny the fact that he  _tried_ , but somehow there was always something that prevented the gesture from belonging in one of those old films. 

One morning, Sam awoke to the smell of breakfast. Upon walking to the kitchen, he found a delectable selection of pastries and other foods; when he took a bite of one of the fluffy bread rolls, he almost choked on a piece of paper that had been hidden inside. On the paper was written a note, scribbled out in Gabriel’s scrawly handwriting— 

 _Do you run a bakery? Because you have the best buns I’ve ever seen._   _(Next message: bathroom.)_

Throughout the day, Sam found these notes—each one directing him to a new destination.

On the shower was a note that told Sam,  _You smell. We should take a shower together to fix that_ ; the wardrobe held a pair of Gabriel’s pants with the pockets pulled out and a note asking,  _Ever kissed a bunny between the ears?_ ; a message on his laptop told him to do his research and was accompanied by a link to  _101 Sex Positions for Humans and Their Celestial Consorts._

Sam’s personal favourite was scrawled in his notebook—a seemingly random assortment of ones and zeros:

_01001001 00100111 01101101 00100000 01110111 01110010 01101001 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110111 00100000 01100001 01101100 01100111 01101111 01110010 01101001 01110100 01101000 01101101 00101110 00100000 01010111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01101101 01100101 01100001 01110011 01110101 01110010 01100101 01101101 01100101 01101110 01110100 01110011 00111111 ;)_

After a while, he was able to decode it as saying,  _I’m writing a new algorithm. What are your measurements?_

Despite all this, Gabriel was nowhere to be found until late that evening when Sam walked in on him posing seductively on their bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of heart-covered boxers. 

"Draw me like one of your French girls," Gabriel purred, crooking a finger to beckon Sam closer. 

Sam, between bursts of laughter, managed to get out that Balthazar wouldn’t be pleased by the  _Titanic_  reference. Gabriel told him he didn’t care in the slightest, and proceeded to practically tackle Sam with a kiss that turned into a makeout session that turned into a discreet removal of clothes and laughter as they tried to be quiet that turned into—well, the rest is simple to figure out.

Later that evening, as they sprawled together on the bed with Sam’s arm around Gabriel and Gabriel’s head tucked into the crook of Sam’s neck, the hunter couldn’t help asking what had prompted all this. Gabriel leaned back to raise an eyebrow at Sam.

"You forgot, didn’t you?" he asked. 

"Forgot what?" Sam replied nervously. 

"It’s Valentine’s Day, dumbass." With a sleepy smirk, Gabriel nuzzled into Sam again. "But it’s okay, I forgive you. You’re lucky you’re a damn good lay."


	6. pda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> youtrytofuckingstopme asked: hi! i saw you had prompts open and i wondered if you could write a little fluffy sastiel drabble since i dont really see a lot if it. thank you! c:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~first try at sastiel it's bad i'm sorry~

Castiel didn’t like swimming, he decided, as he stood stock-still in the middle of a pool of freezing water. All day, the Winchester brothers had been complaining about the heat; eventually, they came to the decision of going to the pool since they had nothing better to do. Cas, not wanting to feel left out, had come along.

"Sam," Castiel said, his teeth chattering, "what is the point of this?" 

Sam shook his hair out with a laugh. “It’s exercise, Cas. It’s good for you.” 

"How?"

Sam dipped beneath the surface of the water and glided over to Cas, resurfacing just in front of him. “Well,” he said, cupping Cas’ face in his hands and tilting it up to plant a kiss on his lips, “actually swimming does help.”

Cas shuffled closer to Sam, enjoying his warmth. He frowned up at the hunter. “And why did I have to take off my clothes?” he asked. Cas was, quite frankly, very annoyed about that: he saw no need to strip down to a pair of underwear-like swimming trunks.

"Because Sam likes to look at your ass," called Dean from one of the sunbeds surrounding the pool. His eyes were concealed by a pair of sunglasses, but a smirk flitted across his lips as he rolled onto his stomach to look at the other two.

Sam blinked, his hazel eyes widening a little as his cheeks flushed. “Shut up, Dean,” he retorted, carding his fingers through Cas’ damp hair.

"Only if you two stop with the PDA." 

Cas, confused by the term, peered up at Sam questioningly. 

"It means Public Displays of Affection," Sam explained. He glanced at Dean, seemingly considering something, then picked Cas right up off the floor of the pool and pressed another kiss to his lips for a couple moments (to a yell of, "Oh, come on!" from the older Winchester); when Sam finally pulled back, Castiel rested his forehead against Sam’s contentedly.

"Was that… PDA?" Cas asked. 

"Yeah," replied Sam with a half smile. 

Castiel thought that, if ‘PDA’ was part of swimming, he didn’t mind the sport so much anymore. 


	7. no shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quakerlass asked: if you're still doing prompts - sabriel - Gabriel is staying at the bunker and thinks its perfectly ok to walk around in just his underwear, Sam is very flustered by this and doesn't know where to look or what to do.

From the moment they had met, it had been obvious to Sam Gabriel had no shame. And over the months and years they had known each other, this fact had only become more and more apparent. Though, Sam had to admit that Gabriel parading around in his underwear was a whole new calibre of the archangel’s “I don’t give a flying crap” attitude. 

This was not the first morning that Gabriel had walked around without pants; no, the days before had seen Gabriel in his boxers and an oversized shirt that Sam was almost certain was his. 

But today, the shirt had been discarded—leaving Gabriel in a pair of boxers decorated with candy canes. 

Sam choked on his coffee when he saw Gabriel. The archangel’s hair was mussed up in a way that was maybe sort of charming if Sam allowed himself to think that way, and Gabriel squinted sleepily in the light.

"Uh, hi, Gabriel," Sam sputtered between coughs. 

"Sup, kid," Gabriel yawned, combing his fingers through his mess of blonde hair as he sat in a chair. He regarded to coughing hunter with vague disinterest. "What is that, coffee? Mind whipping me up some? I hate mornings." 

Sam cleared his throat, refusing to let his gaze drop beneath Gabriel’s face because he was pretty sure he could see some suspicious purple bruises on the archangel’s neck and he really didn’t want to know who had given them to him. 

"Uh, sure," said Sam, flicking on the kettle again. "Gabriel, did you, er, by any chance forget something?" 

"Like what?" 

"I dunno, maybe… your clothes?" 

Gabriel looked down at himself. “Hm? Oh, that. Didn’t feel the need to put on clothes. Not as if anyone would care, right? Dean and Cas are too busy making eyes at each other to notice…” He trailed off, blinking at Sam. A sly grin crept onto his lips. “Wait. Sammy, do my eyes deceive me, or are you blushing?” 

"No—" 

Gabriel burst out laughing, hopping over the table to stand in front of Sam and pinch his cheeks. “You are! You’re blushing like a preteen girl! Oh, this is  _gold_. Sam, be honest—does my glorious physique make your heart flutter? Does it put butterflies in your belly?” He struck a pose. 

"Will you shut up?" Sam said, swatting Gabriel away and trying to will away the heat in his cheeks. "I just wasn’t expecting a naked archangel to walk into the kitchen." 

"Sammo, I ain’t naked." Gabriel plucked at the waistband of his boxers. "Though, if that’s what you want, I’ll be happy to oblige," he chirruped. "Nothing more comfortable than going commando!"

"Stop being an ass and drink your coffee," mumbled Sam, shoving the mug toward Gabriel. 

"If you wanna be the ass in this relationship… Hmm, never saw you as a bottom, but whatever floats your boat, kid." Gabriel smirked and winked, then took a gulp of his coffee and sashayed out the room. 

Sam exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, shutting his eyes. Only Gabriel would—

His thought was cut off when someone pressed their coffee-flavoured lips to his. Sam released a yelp of surprise, jumping back. He was met with the sight of a pair of golden eyes and a smirk.

"Wha—?" Sam started. 

"Just relieving the sexual tension," Gabriel said, setting his empty mug in the sink. "So we, you know, don’t end up with another Dean/Cas situation." He beamed at Sam, then disappeared.

A moment later, Sam could hear a call from Gabriel’s bedroom: “This is the part where you follow me, you know.”


	8. the angel who had once been god

The angel who had once been God looked very small now, Dean thought, and very broken.  
2014, the year that had driven the man without faith to prayer, had descended upon them like a ton of bricks, crushing all men beneath its weight: the blood staining the ground was a commonplace rug and the scents of grief, terror and shock hung in the air—a smog that wouldn’t lift.  
Castiel wasn’t the same anymore—he was barely even the same creature. His hair hung limp and greasy in his eyes and, oh, god, those eyes—the eyes that had once been so filled with strength and that had shone electric blue with defiance were now empty and dull. Cas was just a shell of a man—a lost soldier trying to fill the hollowness inside with drink and cigarette smoke.  
Dean didn’t know how he still loved Cas, because this wasn’t Castiel. This wasn’t the brave, inquisitive, awkward angel that had made Dean feel like a giddy high school boy falling in love more and more each day.  
But he loved Cas still, more than he could express in simple, stupid words. Except that now, where Dean had once felt new life being breathed into him with every look from the angel he’d fallen for, he only felt heartbreak as he desperately tried to save the fallen.


	9. be my valentine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to do valentine's day stuff shut up

Gabriel stands in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection. His hair’s a little messy and he’s nicked himself while shaving, but overall, he thinks he looks nice in his black suit. 

He’s not used to the feeling of the taut fabric; it feels like it’s creasing as he fixes his tie and as he picks up the bouquet of red roses. Gabriel knows that he could just transport himself to the spot, but it doesn’t feel right—he wants to do this the human way. The way Sam always did.

So, he walks outside and gets in the car—a turquoise Beetle; it’s a cute little number, which is why he chose it—shoving the key in the ignition as he sets the flowers in the passenger seat. The Beetle lets out a little huff as the engine starts up, as if reluctantly waking from a deep sleep. 

The drive takes around twenty minutes; by the time Gabriel arrives at the base of the little hill, the sun has already dipped below the horizon.

Gabriel pauses a moment to admire the scene when he gets out the car: the entire hill itself looks ethereal, washed in silvery starlight. The moon is bright enough that he can see miles into the distance with ease as he trudges up the hill. 

Once he reaches the top, he slowly lowers himself down to sit cross-legged on the ground. He fiddles with the bouquet for a bit before setting it in front of himself, where Sam would’ve sat. Gabriel shuts his eyes for a moment before lifting his gaze to admire the French-knot stars sewn into the deep indigo sky.

"So, Samsquatch," he starts quietly after a minute. "Been almost a decade now. I dunno how, but the years’ve gone by quickly and slowly at the same time. I guess it’s an archangel thing. Centuries going by in a blink, and all that." Gabriel has to pause for a couple moments, steadying the wobble in his voice. "I still miss you, you know. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing you. And, hell, if you hadn’t asked me not to, I would’ve brought you back ages ago." 

Gabriel leans back, lying on the tufty grass with his arms folded behind his head. “So. What can I tell you that’s new? Dean and Cas’ little girl got married a while ago. The kid she tied the knot with is decent. I like him. Hey, if you get the chance, d’you mind trying to sneak into Dean’s Heaven to tell him how beautiful she grew up? I know she’s adopted, but she reminds me of him. And you, too, Sammy. You would’ve liked her.” 

There’s a hot prickling behind Gabriel’s eyes; his vision’s blurring. He swallows dryly, reaching up to wipe his cheek. “I should probably get the point, now, huh? Right. Always had a problem with rambling, didn’t I.”  Gabriel laughs quietly. “I remember it used to drive you nuts, though you still put up with it… Anyway. Point is.” He sits up again, studying the sky for a moment. “Sammy, will you be my Valentine?” 

 

 


	10. a blessing and a curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> intergalactic-psychologist asked: I NEED ANGST. LIKE MAKE MY CRY FOR HOURS ANGST. Idc who it is (destiel or sabriel preferably) but I just really need some angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BAD W/ ANGST AND I JUST WOKE UP DONT JUDGE ME

Being immortal was nice to a point, Gabriel thought dully. It meant not aging, not deteriorating, and, obviously, not dying. 

But in this moment, as he shook Sam and begged him again and again and again to  _wake up, goddammit, I know you’re fine, stop pretending, this isn’t funny anymore_ , Gabriel decided immortality was the worst thing that could be wished upon a person.

The sight before him quite frankly  _terrified_ him. Sam wasn’t supposed to look so small. Sam was Gabriel’s gigantic moose, who liked salad and books and his laptop; this broken creature, lying in a pool of his own blood, was  _not_  Sam. It couldn’t be. 

In fact, the more Gabriel thought about it, the more ridiculous the notion sounded. Sam had survived the freakin’  _apocalypse_ , for god’s sake. There was no way some run-of-the-mill vamp had got him. No way it had been Gabriel’s fault for yelling his name and accidentally distracting him him. 

No way. 

But then, for the life of him, Gabriel couldn’t figure out why hot tears still seared trails down his cheeks.


	11. sam is creepy and dean thinks he has awful taste in men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: I HAVE A MIGHTY NEED FOR SHY AWKWARD LITTLE LANKY HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN SAMMY AND SUAVE SENIOR GABRIEL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> katie experiments in the world of present tense again and, like usual, fails miserably.  
> katie starts to wonder why she tries

Sam’s being a creeper again. He thinks. Is it stalkerish to admire someone’s physical appearance like one would admire a beautiful painting? 

He’s just settled on a solid  _probably_ when the boy that’s captivated his attention for the past few weeks looks up. Sam makes a small sound of alarm and hurriedly averts his gaze. 

"Yo, Sammy, you okay there?" Dean asks, dragging Sam’s attention away from his panicked thought train of  _oh god he saw me starting he totally saw me staring I’m so dead I’m so so dead_. Dean’s looking at Sam skeptically, one eyebrow raised. “What happened—cute girl catch you staring?” 

"Uh, yeah," mumbles Sam. "Something like that." 

Dean’s vaguely concerned expression disappears, being replaced by a Cheshire Cat grin. “Oh? Which one was it? The blonde sitting at the Green Freaks table? Bet it was the blonde. Hey, Charlie, what’s that one’s name?” he says, catching the redheaded girl’s attention and pointing at a pretty blonde sitting in the corner. 

Charlie looks away from Jo to follow Dean’s gaze. “Who, Jess Moore?” She props her chin on her hand with a dreamy sigh. “She’s a goddess, isn’t she? I think she’s straight as a board though. Just my luck.”

"Yeah, that’s the one! Either way, Bradbury, looks like you’ve found yourself some competition in my little bro." Dean nudges Sam, his grin becoming even more mischievous. "So you’ve got your eye on Miss Moore over there, have ya? Nice choice, Sammy—I hear she’s great in the sack." 

Sam wrinkles his nose at Dean. “Ew, Dean—no. That’s gross. I wasn’t checking out Jess Moore, god. I was just. Staring into space.” 

But before Dean can let loose another tirade of teases, someone taps Sam on the shoulder. Sam starts slightly and looks up, and he can only imagine the blush that must flood his face as he comes face to face with a pair of golden eyes. 

"Hey, kid," the boy from earlier says cheerfully. "The name’s Gabriel. You mind telling me yours before you undress me with your eyes again?" 

There’s a chorus of  _ooh_ s from the table; Sam makes a small, squeaky sound and does what he guesses must look like a pretty spot-on goldfish impression. He can feel every eye at the table on him and the boy—Gabriel. 

"Oh, crap," Dean mutters from beside Sam. "The hell d’you want, Gabriel?" 

"No need to be so unfriendly, Deano," Gabriel replies, not tearing his gaze from Sam’s face. "I just came over to greet my new admirer."

"For the love of— _this_ douchedick is who you were checking out, Sammy?” Dean sounds appalled as his gaze bores into the back of Sam’s head. 

"Sammy, huh?" Gabriel smirks. "Nice name. Well, Sammy," he continues, plucking one of those candy scented markers out his pocket and grabbing Sam’s hand to scribble something on it, "heeere is my number. Call me sometime, will ya?"  _  
_

Sam blinks, nodding dumbly at the series of digits on the back of his hand.

"Tonight, too, if you can get past your guard dog of a brother. Well, I’m assuming Deano here’s your brother—I heard he was protective over his kid sibling. Never knew said kid sibling was cute, though." Gabriel beams, then chirrups a "Bye!" before prancing off like nothing happened.

Sam blinks again. Then, he turns back to the shocked faces of the rest of the table and blinks at them, too, as he tries to comprehend what just happened. 

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean says, his tone nothing short of disgust. “Gabriel?  _Really_? I have woodshop with that dick, and of  _all_  the people you could’ve picked to drool over— _dude!_ " 

"That was like something out of a cheesy fanfiction!" Charlie exclaims disbelievingly. "How come that stuff never happens to me?" 

There’s a beat, then Sam releases a slight, shaky laugh. “Guess I’m just lucky,” he says. “So, uh, what were we talking about again?”


	12. bodyswap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Can you write a fanfic where dean and cas switch bodies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shitty and short because i'd just woken up but anyway

The first thing Sam sees when he opens his eyes is Dean’s face two inches from his own. 

"Jesus!" Sam yelps, nearly falling out the chair. "What the—!?" 

"Sam," says Dean, "we appear to have a problem." 

Sam, heart rate finally slowing after his ungracious awakening, rubs his eyes and yawns. “What, another killing?”

"No." 

"Then what’s the problem?" 

Just as he speaks, Castiel strides into the room wearing nothing but a dress shirt and his slacks. “The problem,” says Cas, sounding annoyed, “is that angelass here apparently likes to give himself heatstroke with that coat. What the hell, Cas?” 

"Angels are not aware of temperature unless they choose to be," replies Dean solemnly. 

Sam blinks, slowly sitting up and looking between the two. Dean’s posture is stiff and straight, face expressionless; Castiel, however, has collapsed on a couch with his legs propped up on the coffee table and arms draped loosely behind himself over the back of the furniture. His face is animated as he argues with Dean about the trench coat. 

"Wait," Sam says, looking at his brother as he lets out an exasperated sigh and turns away from Cas (who grins triumphantly). "You’re not Dean, are you?" 

Before Dean can respond, Cas has piped up with a, “Hey, look, give the kid a prize. What took you so long, Sammy?” 

Dean shoots him a look. “Sam has just woken up, Dean. And even if he hadn’t, it would’ve taken him awhile to gauge what was going on.” 

Cas waves a hand. “Whatever.”

"So, wait," Sam says, still slightly disorientated. "You switched bodies?" 

"Yes." 

“‘Parently so.” Cas stretches. “One moment, I was asleep, the next I was staring at myself like a creeper.” He glances at Dean. “Dude, you gotta stop doing that.” 

"My apologies," Dean says blandly. 

"Anyway," continues Cas, turning his attention back to Sam. "Got no clue what happened. So we should probably figure that out first. There’s another issue, though—I don’t think featherbutt’s emptied his bladder since he got this vessel, which means I really gotta go. But it also means I gotta handle Cas’ junk." 

Dean makes a tired, groaning sound. “Dean, they’re just genitals.” 

"I don’t wanna accidentally end up with a boner ‘cause I touched it wrong!" Cas sighs and gets up. "Look, lemme go get into my own clothes so I can think straight. Sammy, d’you mind googling body switches in the meantime?" 

Before Sam can reply, Cas has walked out the room, leaving Dean and Sam alone. 

There are a few moments of silence. 

"Cas," says Sam. "You mind not staring at me like that? It’s weird enough when it’s your face, but when it’s Dean’s? Dude." 

Dean drops his gaze, examining the buttons on his own shirt. “My apologies,” he says again. 


	13. [procrastinates aggressively]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IM SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ON A FIC BUT IM A LITTLE SHIT SO DRABBLE

Dean likes kissing Castiel. 

He likes pressing his lips to the angel’s knuckles without thinking; he likes the salty taste of Cas’ neck (and the gravelly moans of his name whenever he does kiss and lick and nip the smooth skin. He  _definitely_  likes those); he likes the delicious scrape of stubble against his skin as he traces Castiel’s jaw with his lips, memorizing the sharp line over again. 

Dean  _loves_ capturing Cas’ lips between his own, kissing him so hard his own mouth feels bruised. Dragging his hand up the angel’s back and tangling his fingers in his silky hair because Castiel’s so solid and true and  _there_  that Dean’s never going to let him go, not if he has the choice.

And from the way Cas cups the hunter’s face in his hands, rough thumb raking gently along his cheekbone and brow furrowed ever so slightly like kissing Dean is the most important thing in the universe, it’s not a far stretch to say Cas doesn’t want to lose Dean either.


	14. gays in space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Do you think you could possibly write a fic where dean finds destiel smut or whatever and thinking 'I could do better than that to him' and then cas just walking in?

Okay, so, the fans of the  _Supernatural_ books are really fucking weird, Dean decides with a bland kind of shock.

Not only do the nutjobs want him to bump uglies with his brother, they apparently want him sucking Cas off or something too. Because evidently they can’t accept the fact that Cas has the libido of, oh, a fucking  _turnip._

Jesus Christ. 

"Jesus Christ," Dean says aloud as he scowls down at the blue website on his computer’s screen. He’d been scanning the ‘net to see if anyone had leaked the manuscript of Chuck’s latest book—assuming the guy had written one before he’d disappeared off the face of the earth—in case it held any valuable information. 

That’s when he’d encountered the piece of shit “slash ship” (what is this, a fucking pirate movie?) that would surely follow him to hell: 

_Destiel._

"What in the name of god is this crap?" he mutters to himself, scanning the page. There’s, like, a trillion "fics" under the Destiel tag, eighty percent of them including the term "AU".

"The hell’s an AU?" mutters Dean. Then, he yells over his shoulder, "The hell’s an AU?" 

"Uh, what?" Sam calls back from somewhere else in the bunker. "AU? It means Astronomical Units. It’s a unit of measurement equal to 149.6 million kilometers, the mean distance from the centre of the earth to the centre of the sun—" 

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Dean cuts him off. 

So apparently they want him and Cas to fuck. In space. 

What in the hell are these people smoking? 

The stories are all classed into yet more subgenres, like “genderbends” and “high school AUs”. Everyone seems to be throwing a hissy fit about Elvis for some reason, too, but Dean can’t for the life of him figure out where Presley comes into the equation of Dean and Cas apparently starring in  _Gays in Space: the Musical._

Then, Dean notices something—they all have ratings. In other words, some are rated Explicit.  _In other words, the spacefucking isn’t just alluded to—it’s actually fucking written!_

Before he can stop himself, he’s opened the first Explicit and is scanning the page with a frown. Dean gets around halfway down the page before he releases a sound of alarm and slams his laptop’s lid shut. Hesitantly, he lifts the lid again and squints down at the paragraph to reaffirm that he’d actually read it correctly. 

"That position is not physically possible," Dean says, his tone soft and full of pure disbelief. "Anyone who has any  _concept_  of how human anatomy works would know that that sure as  _hell_  isn’t possible.”

But now, his interest’s piqued. Because, okay, yeah, there’s no denying that a good chunk of these  _Destiel Shippers_  are virgins. But surely some must’ve popped their cherries? 

So there’s no harm in checking out a couple other stories—either he’ll pick up some tips on what girls think is hot (aside from making very-heterosexual-thank-you-very-much men gay), or he’ll get some entertainment because—

“ _That does not go there!_ " exclaims Dean with no small measure of bewilderment. 

As Dean clicks through the various fics, he finds himself getting more and more drawn into them. Some of the stories have broken a hundred-thousand words; he steers clear of those. 

Instead, he focuses mainly on the ones classed PWP—or, from what he’s gauged, “Porn Without Plot”.

One helluva lot of these fanfiction writers seem to like playing Cas off as a toppy sonuvabitch, and while Dean doesn’t enjoy being seen as a swooning fangirl, he can’t deny the certain  _interest_  that makes itself known downstairs. 

Two hours later, he’s on what must be the thirtieth fic he’s read this evening. The one Dean’s attention is currently transfixed upon is set somewhere in the ’60s—he’s wonders vaguely if this is the reason for the Elvis hysteria, but he’s too caught up in what’s going on in the story—

> _Dean settled onto him, rolling his hips, rutting against Cas’ skin, their dicks dragging together in a slow motion that made Cas’ fingers curl into his pillowcase. He moved sleepily with Dean, meeting the slow fuck of his hand when Dean’s fingers closed around both of them, stroking almost lazily while they rocked together…_

"Man, I’d do so much better than that," Dean murmurs to himself, scrolling down. 

"Than what, Dean?" 

Dean lets out a squawking noise at the sound of the gravelly voice, shutting the laptop hurriedly. He blinks up at the angel standing beside his bed, suddenly trying to imagine him with glasses. “Dude, you mind knocking?” he chastises weakly. 

"You kept saying my name, Dean." Castiel looks at him quizzically. "If you were not calling me, what was the purpose of doing so?" 

"Uh, I was, uh, reading aloud." 

Cas nods slowly. 

Dean peers up at him, a thought occurring to him. “Hey, Cas?”

"Yes, Dean?"

"How’d you feel if I asked you to help me further knowledge of human and angel flexibility?" 

Cas pauses, frowning. “I would agree, as the knowledge of the limits of our separate species could be beneficial.” 

"Alright, good," Dean says, opening up the laptop. "Because, boy, have I got some things to show you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to imagine dean cried at the end of 'twist and shout' and then refused to let cas out his sight for a month


	15. untitled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WANTED TO WRITE HAPPY FLUFF BUT OBVIOUSLY THAT ISNT GOING TO HAPPEN W WOODEN HORSES THEREFORE
> 
> ...dont look at me

Okay, so, evidently, Castiel didn’t learn  _that_  much from the infamous Pizza Man.

Dean’s gotta give the guy props for trying, but it’s obvious touching lips with Dean didn’t turn Cas into some sex god because he’s kind of all teeth and awkward pokes of tongue and he keeps doing that wrinkly thing with his nose like he’s trying to suck it back into his face or something. 

"Cas," Dean says, unable to stop the amused smile in his voice as he gently pulls back a couple centimeters. 

"Dean," replies the angel solemnly, but even in the dark of the alleyway the distress on his face is obvious. 

In an attempt to soothe him, Dean ducks forward to brush a kiss to his cheek. “You okay there, man?” 

"I’m perfectly fine, Dean—" 

Dean rests his forehead against Castiel’s. He can still feel Cas’ fingers still tangled stiffly in his shirt from when the angel had shoved him against the wall earlier, though the actual motion seems years away—the change in mood from anger to… whatever this ishad been so sudden it had been almost comical. ”No, featherbutt, I mean—are you  _okay_? ‘Cause, no offense, Cas, but you seem like you’re about to blow a blood vessel you’re so tense.” 

Castiel frowns at him. “I don’t mean to be of any inconvenience, Dean. I’m just not very…” He hesitates. “… _experienced_ in the practice of osculation.” 

"First of all, let’s just call it kissing because scientific words aren’t exactly sexy. Second—dude, you gotta relax. I’ll bet anything you ain’t enjoying this much yourself."

Cas looks so ridiculously stressed by this that Dean lets out a huff of laughter. “Just.” He gently takes Castiel’s hand, prying rigid fingers from his shirt, and kisses each of Cas’ knuckles. “Just take a deep breath. It’s all okay, Cas. You’ll get used to it.” 

"I don’t wish to disappoint you, Dean…" Castiel starts, almost miserably, but trails off when Dean leans forward and kisses him again—this time guiding the angel in the soft, slow movement. It’s an odd feeling to be able to do this with Cas—to be able to taste the mouth that’s been off-limits for so long. But any thought of how weird it feels melts away when Castiel catches on to how exactly the whole thing’s supposed to work. 

"Atta boy," Dean praises with a quiet laugh, grinning into the kiss when Cas cups his face in his hands and strokes a calloused thumb along his cheekbone. He can’t tell if it’s instinct or if Cas is just mimicking what Dean had done earlier, but it’s  _awesome_  and he can practically feel Cas puffing up with pride. 

"This is…" murmurs Castiel after a moment, his voice filled with a nearly uncharacteristic amount of warmth, "…much more pleasurable." 

"Well, yeah, things tend to be a bit nicer when you ain’t clenching your ass hard enough to make diamonds outta coal," smirks Dean before leaning forward to kiss the irritable downturn of Castiel’s lips away. 

A random alleyway in of some middle-of-nowhere town has is one of the best places to share a first kiss, it turns out. 


	16. brothers are assholes to each other

At this point in time, Dean only knows two things. 

Thing One: 

The idea that Castiel’s holier-than-thou attitude equates to him not having the ability to get down and dirty when he wants to is utter bullshit. (Dean thinks that whoever came up with this idea must’ve been on some pretty heavy stuff. He also blatantly disregards the fact that  _he_  came up with this idea because, c’mon, is he really being expected to think logically when what Cas is doing with those lips of his is getting the great Dean Winchester flustered?)

Thing Two: 

Sam and Gabriel are dicks. 

Interestingly enough, Thing One is proving Thing Two more and more each second. 

"You want me to put my  _ding-a-ling_  in your  _fairy cave?_   _Are you mad, woman!?_ " one of the Grade A Douchebags yells from the other side of the door. That one’s probably Gabriel, but then both of the assholes are pissing themselves with laughter so Dean doesn’t bother to figure it out. 

That is, he doesn’t bother to figure it out until there’s a yell of, “But your penis… It’s so  _big._ " 

Nope.  _That_ one’s Gabriel.

More laughter. 

"I’m going to kill them," Dean growls through gritted teeth. 

Castiel kisses his chest thoughtfully. “I doubt that would be beneficial, Dean, as it would disrupt us even further.” And he’s doing that stupid thing again where he talks like his ass is clenched so tight his colon could hold a gallon of water without any leaking out, but his voice is pretty much an orgasm with that husky tone and rough amusement and— 

Yeah, that thing he does is  _really_  freakin’ stupid. 

"Shut up," says Dean, and it’s half directed at the exaggeratedly pornographic sounds Sam and Gabriel are making. 

"I’m not the one that started this conversation, Dean," replies Castiel as he nips at Dean’s collarbone then trails his lips up his neck to the corner of his mouth in a series of slow, lazy kisses. "Don’t pay them any mind." 

Dean grunts irritably and turns his face, capturing Cas’ obscenely pink lips between his own and tangling his fingers in the angel’s hair to pull him closer. He tries to concentrate on that earthy, sweet scent that’s so purely  _Cas_ , but then one of the dickheads outside the room is shouting in a bad imitation of Castiel’s standard monotone, “Dean Winchester, control your nether regions or I swear to my father that I will get rid of them completely.”

Dean yanks away to glare at the door. “ _I’m going to kill them_ ,” he reiterates. 

The next thing he’s aware of is Castiel doing something that makes Dean decide,  _Yep, I’m going to hell,_  because he’s almost certain that on the Official List of Things You’re Not Supposed to Do With an Angel, this is number one. 

Dean then realises he’s moaning. Loudly. 

Also, Sam and Gabriel have gone quiet. 

Dean shuts up and turns his gaze on Cas. The angel’s wearing that sly barely-there smirk as he looks up at Dean, all bright blue eyes and ridiculous bedhead. 

"Dude," Dean hears Sam mumble to Gabriel. "I think they’re actually,  _you know_ …” 

Gabriel starts, “Nah, Cassie wouldn’t—” 

Before he can finish, Dean’s rolled over to pin Castiel down, grazing his teeth over the spot he knows drives Cas crazy. Now it’s Castiel’s turn to moan, the sound rich and throaty and molded into the word, “ _Dean.”_  

"Oh, Jesus!" Gabriel yelps from outside, voice full of alarm. "That’s— _euch_!”

Dean can’t make out Sam’s exact reply, but his little brother’s tone is full of disgust. 

"How much of this d’you think they can take?" Dean murmurs to Castiel, grinning. 

Cas considers this for a moment. “I would give them five minutes before Gabriel transports them to China. Perhaps Australia.” 

"Let’s try get it down to thirty seconds and Antarctica, eh?" 

"As you would say, Dean—it’s on."


	17. -

The first time Dean and Castiel have sex, it’s rough. 

Not the kind of rough the other men had told Castiel about, though—it’s not pleasurable or exciting, and it doesn’t bring them closer the way a supposed act of love should. 

It’s scary and disorientating, and Castiel doesn’t like it at all. 

He thinks that may be because Dean’s angry when he marches into Castiel’s cabin, boots slamming on the wooden floor like miniature cracks of thunder. There’s no softness in his eyes or warmth in his voice when he demands to talk to Cas, already yanking off his own jacket and tossing it aside. 

Castiel pretends he doesn’t understand what’s being implied, hopes his experiences with humans have taught him wrong—but then Dean growls that he needs to let off some steam (that he doesn’t like the other bitches at the camp because of how whiny they are).

So Castiel gives in and allows himself to be kissed, hard, because he can’t stand the broken look in his human’s eyes—a look that he can’t heal because he’s not an angel, because he’s  _useless_  now that he’s fallen, and if sex is all he can offer to soothe Dean’s pain, he’ll give as much of it as needed. 

Dean does enquire if Castiel’s okay one point, somewhere around the time he’s pulling the fallen angel’s shirt open. Cas almost asks Dean to slow down, to allow comfort to take place through gentle brushes of lips and careful touches rather than rough kisses and bruising grips. 

But then Castiel remembers that Dean’s happiness is infinitesimally more important than his own, so he reassures him that he can continue. 

The act itself lasts five minutes (Dean has other things to do: he can’t waste too much of his time on useless activities like sex with Cas); in the beginning, Castiel tries to reciprocate—but Dean needs too much too fast and, eventually, Cas just allows him to do what he wants. He doesn’t wish to hinder Dean. 

When it’s over, Dean doesn’t look Castiel in the eye; his quiet thanks are muttered hurriedly as he strides out, leaving Cas to clean up the mess left behind.

And Castiel’s soreness has barely faded by the next time Dean needs to let off some steam. 


	18. the most masculine list

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bc writers' block & boredom ignore me

Dean’s been planning this for weeks. 

He’s dressed in his Most Masculine outfit (feat. the muddiest pair of boots he owns), is wearing his Most Masculine (well, only) cologne, and has written out his list of things to say on the Most Masculine Notepad to Ever Be Written Upon (which also happens to be decorated with a little fleur de lis emblem at the top but, hey, fleur de lis can be masculine if it wants, right?). 

On said list is the following: 

  * _I’m still me ok_
  * _I haven’t changed_
  * _I just_
  * _~~like dick too~~_
  * _~~think butts are hot on everyone even if some belong to dudes~~_
  * _~~would like to sex a certain angel real good~~_
  * _like guys as much as I like girls._
  * _all the more for me suck it_
  * _you won’t keep walking in on me getting it up the butt i promise_
  * _Ill put a sock on the door whenever I’m getting some_
  * _itll be a blue one so you know i’m w/ a dude_
  * _I won’t force you to go to gay bars with me either_
  * _we might need to buy lube sometimes though?????? oh god lubes such a ~~wierd~~  weird word why _
  * _………..but i’ll pay for it w/ my own money?_
  * _yeah ok._
  * _note to self: DO NOT BLUSH BECAUSE THAT FUCKER WILL PROBABLY HOLD IT OVER YOU FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE_
  * _also get more gas you’re running out_



Dean peers down at his list one more time, mentally reminding himself to get gas because he still hasn’t, then walks into Sam’s room. 

"Sammy," he says, opting to think of his brevity as more of the succinct kind than the I’m-going-to-shit-myself kind. 

"Mm?" replies his brother, not looking up from his laptop. 

"Gotta talk." 

Again,  _succinct._  

Sam finally glances up, raising his eyebrows and shutting his laptop. “Yeah, uh, sure, Dean. What’s up?” 

Dean stiffly walks over to the bed and plonks down on the edge. “Uh.” He squints at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, then, with the eloquence he’s been practicing all these weeks, says, “I’m still me and guys have butts and I’ll put a blue sock on the door and I’ll buy my own lube.” Pause. “We also need gas.”

_Nailed it._

"Um. What?" 

Okay, apparently not. 

Dean shuffles a bit, readjusting his position and shoving the useless paper in his pocket. “Sam, I think… I think I might be a li’l gay. Not too gay or anything. Halfway through. Like. Bisexual. That’s the word. I think I’m bisexual.” 

"Uh…huh." Sam looks at him blankly, then turns his attention back to his laptop as he opens it back up. 

Dean blinks. “That’s it?” 

"I guess? I mean, were you expecting me to act like I didn’t know, or…?" 

"I— Wait. You  _knew!?”_ Dean says, his voice pitching up at the end in a way that could be considered yelping but obviously wasn’t since he’s Dean Winchester. 

"…You didn’t know I knew?" 

“ _How did you know_?”

Sam stares at Dean like he’s a bit slow. “Dean, you do realise how much you flirt with dudes, right?” 

"Um." 

"And the way you look at Cas?" 

"Er." 

"And the way you get all flustered when you see a guy checking you out?" 

"Uh." 

Sam lets out a laugh and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you thought I didn’t know. Dean, seriously, I don’t care who you hook up with. As long as you’re happy, it’s cool by me. But just don’t tell me about it the next morning, okay? Girl or guy, I don’t wanna know what positions you did it in.”

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. Okay." Dean gets up, nods affirmatively, and turns to walk out the room.

"Hey, Dean?"

He comes to a screeching halt. “Yeah?”

"Remember to get gas."

"Gas, right! Thanks, Sammy." Dean grins, then adds, softer, "I mean it."

Sam just smiles.

 

 


	19. pulling pigtails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous: Hey I'm pretty late but u asked for writing prompts so u should write about sam's hair getting so long Gabriel goes around pulling on it and calling him repunzel

"No, Gabriel—for the last time, I’m not putting my hair in pigtails, okay?" 

Gabriel crawls into Sam’s lap, in the same motion pushing the hunter’s laptop straight out of it. He hooks his arms around Sam’s neck, frowning. “But Sammy. I can’t pull your pigtails if I ain’t got any pigtails to pull.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and attempts to lean over to type on his laptop; Gabriel wriggles to the side so he’s blocking Sam’s view of the screen once again. He leans up to press their foreheads together, giving the hunter his most innocent look—one he learned from Sam himself. 

"Look, Rapunzel," Gabriel starts reasonably, "if you let me put your hair in pigtails, I’ll let you top." 

"You already let me top." 

Gabriel holds up a finger. “But this time, I’ll explicitly  _tell_ you I’m letting you top because I got to put your hair in pigtails. There’s a difference.”

Sam actually seems to consider this for a moment before he (cruelly and unlovingly, Gabriel thinks) shoves the archangel off himself. “Go away, Gabe. I’m working.” 

Gabriel disappears and reappears on his shoulders, hugging Sam’s head and resting his chin on top of it. “You should always make time for your Significant Other,” he muses. “All the relationship psychologist… people say so.” 

"I made time for you last night," Sam reminds him as he moves Gabriel’s hands and pulls his laptop back into his lap. Gabriel slides down to sit behind him, wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist.

Gabriel lets out a happy sound. “Mmm, sure did,” he purrs, brushing Sam’s hair aside to kiss the back of his neck, then the crook. He barely manages to contain his smirk at the quiet catch in Sam’s breath; continuing to trail his lips across the smooth skin, Gabriel carefully gathers Sam’s hair up, parting it in the centre. 

"Gabe—" Sam protests thinly, tipping his head to the side to bare more skin for the archangel’s mouth. 

Gabriel uses this opportunity to give a quick nip. “Shaddup, Sammich,” he reprimands. “It ain’t polite to talk while someone’s pleasuring you.” He soothes the spot with a lazy kiss. “Thank all that’s out there you’re not this mouthy when I’m going down on y—” 

He breaks off and, snapping two hairbands into existence, swiftly ties Sam’s chestnut locks into pigtails. Gabriel releases a triumphant, “Ha!” and gives the pigtails each a tug.  

Silence. 

"…Sammy?" Gabriel asks after a moment, peering around at the Winchester. Before he can react, Sam’s shoved his computer away and has yanked Gabriel into his lap, fingers pressing down on his hips almost hard enough to bruise and, yep, Gabriel can feel  _definite_  interest there.

He blinks up at his human, who’s regarding him with dark, half-lidded eyes.

"So," Sam says, leaning forward so his lips just brush Gabriel’s own as he speaks, "what were you saying about letting me top if you got to put my hair in pigtails?" 

Gabriel breaks out in a grin, reaching up to slip the hairbands out Sam’s hair just in time. “I’m nothing if I’m not a man of my word, Samsquatch,” he replies, eagerly returning Sam’s rough kiss.


	20. hella nice thighs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> swimmingfrug asked you: Sabriel and post-finals euphoria? Or maybe something involving short-shorts and heels. Or randomly being attacked by (or courted by) moose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm bad at titling things shut up

Maybe it’s Gabriel’s long hair. Or his well-padded shape. His small stature could definitely be a contributing factor, too.

Sam tries not to dwell too much on  _why_ Gabriel looks hot prancing about in his sister’s heels—because the fact and the matter is that he does. There’s no real denying it and, as inebriated as Sam is, he can’t be bothered to try.

Gabriel chugs down the rest of his beer and releases a gleeful cackle, wobbling back over to Sam to grab another from the carton in the Winchester’s lap. “I think I’m gettin’ the hang of these things, Samaroo!” he announces before promptly falling on his ass.

There’s a moment of silence before Gabriel props himself up on his elbow and sternly enunciates, “ _Getting_  the hang of ‘em. I didn’t say I’d mastered the art just yet.” He pops open his beer and takes a gulp. He crawls over to Sam, plopping his butt down beside him and resting his head on his shoulder. 

"Bright pink’s definitely your colour," Sam observes while simultaneously trying to take a sip of beer. This, of course, results in some spluttering, some coughing and a rather loud sneeze on Sam’s behalf (and some uproarious laughter on Gabriel’s). 

"Gee, thanks, Samster," chirrups Gabriel once he’s managed to stop guffawing. He topples back to rest his head in Sam’s lap, swearing when the carton of beer gets in his way and shoving it unceremoniously off Sam. He lifts his legs in the air, bicycling them as he examines his sparkly fuchsia heels with one eye closed. "Y’know, you should put something on too." 

"Like what?" Sam asks, not completely opposed to the idea but unsure of whether he’d look as good as Gabriel does in heels.

"Liiiike…" Gabriel pauses, frowning in thought. "Like shorts! Short-shorts!" He nods vigorously and scrambles to his feet, briefly falling on his face but righting himself and charging ahead undeterred nonetheless. "The shortest short-shorts to ever…"

"Be short?" suggests Sam.

Gabriel stumbles back into the room, holding a pair of hot pants up reverently. “Behold.”

Sam peers at the scrap of denim. “Those wouldn’t fit me,” he says dubiously, clambering to his feet and making his way over to Gabriel. 

"Sure they would! You may be the size of the Empire State, Sammo, but you’ve got the tightest little ass I’ve ever seen," replies Gabriel, slapping Sam’s rear for emphasis. 

"I guess I’ll try them," Sam decides after a moment. "But if we have to use scissors to cut ‘em off me ‘cause they got stuck, I’m telling Hael it was all your idea."

"That’s the spirit!" 

Without thinking, Sam unbuttons his jeans and pulls them off, barely noticing Gabriel’s hoot of approval. 

"Nice thighs," Gabriel says, handing Sam the shorts.

"You’ve seen my thighs tons of times before," replies Sam as he awkwardly tugs the hot pants on. 

"Hella nice thighs," reaffirms Gabriel. 

After a bit of staggering about, Sam eventually manages to wriggle the shorts up his legs. He can feel the tight material straining against his crotch as he buttons them up. 

He turns to face Gabriel, splaying his fingers expectantly. “And?” 

"Jesus," Gabriel says slowly, dragging his gaze along every curve of Sam’s the denim shorts hug. " _Jeeeeeesus_. Shoulda been studying this instead of bio these past few weeks.” 

Sam rolls his eyes with a laugh, overbalancing quite theatrically when Gabriel tackles him with a kiss.

The kiss itself only lasts a short while; after a couple minutes, they’re both sound asleep. 

When Castiel arrives home the next morning, he’s not exactly sure how to react to finding his brother and Sam, both dressed in his sister’s clothing, passed out on his carpet floor. He eventually decides it best to just drape a blanket over the pair and leave them be.

Dean hadn’t wanted him to leave anyway. 


	21. untitled wing!sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ceriphena-underbough: hey man you asked for sabriel prompts (I have so freaking many but I cant write fanfiction) -april fools where sam gets gabes wings -gabe forcing chuck to write fanfiction -gabes birthday results in a prank war (btw I love your writing)

Don’t ask Gabriel how it happens, because he doesn’t fucking know, okay?  

March 31st, 11:59PM, he’s happily curled up to Sam. Stretching his wings out after hugging them close to his body for too long in case a wave of pleasure caused them to poof onto this plane of existence again. (Which was something he’d never actually thought would happen till Sam’s new, ahem,  _talent_ was discovered. After the untimely demise of Sam’s bedside lamp, Gabriel learnt to be more careful about where he put his wings when he and Sam were dancing the horizontal tango.) 

April 1st, midnight. Four zeros on the clock, and he’s got a faceful of feathers. Golden feathers. With auburn tips. Very distinctive feathers. Very distinctively  _his_. And very distinctively not attached to him in the slightest.

The wings they  _are_  attached to, however, are now whacking Gabriel in the face with small, panicked little flaps. 

"Would—you—stop—that—!" Gabriel releases a yelp of alarm as he’s knocked off the bed, landing face-down on the floor. With a groan, he hauls himself up into a sitting position and rubs his abused face displeasedly. He doubts it’ll bruise—he can thank the healing wonders of his archangelness for that much—but it still sucks a dick to have his face battered like that. Or, you know, doesn’t, since sucking dick can actually be fun sometimes. 

Dammit. 

Using the eye that doesn’t feel like it’s been beaten into a glob of seeing-jelly, Gabriel peers at what’s on the bed. He raises his eyebrows. 

Sam sits on his haunches, wide-eyed and half enveloped by a pair of large, aureate wings—and, probably for the first time in his entire life, he actually looks dwarfed by something. He bats at one of the wings tentatively, lifts his gaze to Gabriel and says, “ _Wings!?_ " 

"Glad to see at least  _your_  eyes still work.” Gabriel pulls himself to his feet, stumbling slightly. He holds out his arms till he regains his balance entirely.

"I’ve got wings," Sam elaborates. 

“ _My_  wings, to be precise,” adds Gabriel. 

Sam blinks, stretching one of the appendages curiously. Before Gabriel can warn him, the TV’s gone flying in a graceful arc straight into the wall. There’s a theatrical crash as it hits the floor.

Sam starts, craning his neck in an attempt to see over the arched tip of his wing. ”Shit,” he says when he sees the wreckage. 

"Yup," Gabriel observes dismally as he stares down at the shattered set. "They were gonna play  _The Notebook_  in a couple hours, too.”

"Sorry." 

Gabriel shrugs off the apology, deciding that, worst comes to worst, he’ll crawl into Dean and Castiel’s bed to watch the movie. It’s doubtful that either of them would be too pleased by his presence, but they’d just have to deal with it. It’s not his fault his boyfriend grew wings. 

Speaking of. 

Gabriel reaches behind himself, grateful for his Holy Flexibility as he grapples uselessly at the back of his shirt. After some impressive contortions, he comes to the conclusion that there are no familiar wisps of warmth where his wings should be. Which means the ones Sam’s currently struggling with are, without a doubt, the real deal. 

 _Fuck_. 

"Houston," says Gabriel slowly, "we have a problem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might continue this - we'll see


	22. an old story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i was scared about the finale and this happened

There’s an old story in this town. A story about two brothers who saved the world. 

As the story goes, the brothers drove around the country and saved people from monsters of all sorts. They faced every creature you can think of, it’s said, from ghosts to witches, zombies to rougarous, the King of Hell to Satan himself. 

That’s where the saving of the world bit comes in. 

'Course, they didn't do it alone. No, they had some help along the way—an old drunk, the slyest conwoman you've ever heard of, a boy who used to be in advanced placement and a girl who cared about fictional characters more than the average person would, to name a few.

There were angels too, according to the old sheriff who lives down the road. One that’s rumoured to have loved one of the brothers enough to turn against Heaven and fall for him, and another who stood up for what he believed in after running for centuries—and then there was one who forgot she was an angel entirely. Some say even God made an appearance—but that part’s more speculation than anything else.

According to the old sheriff who lives down the road, she helped them as well. No one really believes her, because everyone knows that the deaths of her husband and son have haunted her into her old age and driven her a bit batty—but I think there might be some truth to what she says. To all the stories she tells as she sits in her rocking chair, surrounded by a rapt audience of little kids excited to hear the tales they’ve heard a thousand times before. 

There’s a car parked on the edge of town. It’s old and rusted now—no one aside from curious teenagers has bothered to go near it since that tree started growing through it—but if you look closely enough, you can find a toy soldier still jammed into the ashtray and spot the flashes of red and yellow and green that reveal the presence of legos crammed down the vents. 

People say there’s no way it can be the Impala the stories talk about; if it were, if the stories were somehow real, there would be a pair of initials carved into the car somewhere—S.W. and D.W. Everyone who’s searched for the initials says they must be too faded or covered up with dirt to be found, or simply not there at all.

Whenever I ask Sheriff Mills if that really is the brothers’ car, she just smiles down into her tea. Like she thinks that, if she looks hard enough, the brothers’ faces will appear to smile back at her. 


	23. humans have a name for it

The first time Castiel sees Dean after hearing he’s alive, he feels a spreading ache in his chest. Emanating from just left of the center, it pushes against his ribs so hard it might as well bruise. 

Dean watches him, mouth twisted into a smirk that seems more sewn into place than out of genuine amusement. “So, a human, an angel and a demon walk into a bar,” he says. 

In a moment, Cas is standing only a few steps in front of him. His hands, still dangling uselessly at his sides, itch to reach up and cup the human’s—the  _demon’s_ —face, to somehow express his urge to comfort Dean through touch. But, even now, Dean is off-limits, so Castiel just flexes his fingers instead. “Dean, how—?” 

Dean shrugs, turning his face away. “Guess this is what happens when you play with yourself too much. Might not be blind but I still got the shades.” He points at the darkness tinting his eyes. “Think they’d work as sunglasses? Or are they just there to creep people out?” 

Castiel ignores Dean’s question, opting to remain silent instead. He studies Dean’s face, takes in the cuts carved into his freckled skin. One above each eyebrow, just shy of cutting through the short brown hair. One sliced along his cheekbone, another, this one more jagged, beneath his lower lip. 

Unable to bear scrutinizing the injuries any longer, Cas lifts his gaze to Dean’s eyes again. They’re unsettling—unflinchingly boring into Cas, blackness concealing what emotion should be visible in them. 

"Are you okay with this?" Cas asks, hesitantly, quietly. 

Dean seems to consider the question for a moment. “Nope,” he decides. “Nope, I’m not really okay being something I’ve been taught to hate since I was a kid. Not in the fucking slightest, actually. Because it kinda sucks ass to learn that, yep, there’s yet another thing I can hate myself for. Whoop-de- _fuckin_ '-doo _._ ”

He stops. Takes a breath. Smiles. “But unless you got an idea of how to, I dunno, stop me being part of the species that’s hurt almost everyone I care about, I don’t see much use in being loud about how I’d stab myself in the fucking chest if I weren’t scared I’d come back as something even worse than this. Never have been too vocal about that stuff before, anyway.”

Dean steps forward, hands shoved in pockets, eyebrows raised and head tilted to the side. “So, Cas, got any pearls of wisdom on the subject? Any way to help me not be…” He gestures to himself, “…this? One of Crowley’s little ducklings?” 

As Castiel looks back into the glistening, inky black of Dean’s eyes, he realises he doesn’t have an answer.

Something else he realises is that humans have a name for the pain in his chest: they call it heartbreak. 


	24. sunflowers

"You have sunflowers in your eyes." 

Sam glances up from his computer screen to raise an eyebrow at Gabriel, who’s perched beside him on the bed. “What?” 

"Sunflowers," Gabriel repeats. "In your eyes." 

"Thanks, that makes it so much clearer." 

Gabriel picks Sam’s laptop up, dumping it unceremoniously aside so he can crawl into the Winchester’s lap and squint at him further. “Your eyes are bluey-sometimes-browny-green, see,” he explains, “but then you’ve got little spots of greeny-yellow ‘round your pupils, and it looks like tiny sunflowers.” He pauses to consider something. “You think it’s got something to do with all that leafy crap you munch down? You know, ‘you are what you eat’, and all that. Maybe you’re turning into a flower ‘cos you’re a health freak.” 

"Aaand if I  _do_  turn into a flower,” Sam says, because he’s been staring at his computer for ages anyway, and he might as well humour Gabriel, “what sort would I be?” 

Gabriel crinkles his nose disapprovingly. “Haven’t you been listening? You’re gonna turn into a sunflower, Sammo. But. Like. A real big one. Like those vine things in  _Super Mario Bros._  that Mario and Luigi use to climb up into the clouds.” 

Sam huffs out a laugh, leaning forward a bit to kiss Gabriel’s cheek. “Whatever you say, Gabe. I guess if I turn into a plant, you have permission to climb me.”

Before he can pull back, though, Gabriel’s grabbed his face, smushing his cheeks in a way that is most definitely on purpose. “Whaddaya mean  _if,_  Sammy?” Gabriel says, a Cheshire Cat grin appearing on his face. “You don’t need to be a plant for me to climb you like a tree.” 

And when Gabriel closes the distance between their lips, Sam decides that that offer doesn’t sound too bad.

 


	25. the 'b' word (bisexuality)

It’s not like Dean’s never been attracted to dudes before. 

Like, yeah, sure—that one guy who’d made his coffee when he and Sam were stuck on that incubus case in Missouri had had a nice smile, and the brunette who’d beamed at him from the diner’s counter earlier had had an ass like no other. 

But Dean’s never really paid these flickers of interest much attention (aside from when he’d held hands with the boy with the grey eyes in seventh grade). At least, he hasn’t paid them much attention since the whole saga with Sam leaving for Standford—because, jeez, if his dad had flipped shit over his son going to college, his reaction to hearing the other likes dick would’ve been apocalyptic. 

So, for ages, Dean’s been perfectly fine with sticking to the gentle curves and smooth skin of girls, thank you very much. He’s got a taste for cherry chapstick, and, c’mon, man: girls are hot. It’s not like it’s a hardship. 

He’s been content with the women whose beds he falls into, because they’re kinky and sexy and always damn good lay.

That is, he’s been content until Castiel. 

 

Castiel with his dumb scruff and dumb sexhair and dumb blue eyes and his  _incredibly_  dumb way of saying Dean’s name like it’s a prayer of woven glass that would shatter if uttered wrong (even though that makes sense zero because, duh, prayers aren’t glass and words can’t shatter—but that doesn’t stop Castiel because Castiel’s a holier-than-thou asshole.)

In summation: Castiel is very dumb. And very socially inept. And very, very hot. 

And Dean thinks he might be in love with him. 

"Fucking shit!" Dean exclaims aloud, because since when did  _that_ part get added to the thought circuit? Usually, it’s just contemplating what an attractive asshole who’s very attractive but also very assholeish Cas is, then going moving on with life. 

He’s never once thought to himself,  _H_ _ey, I wonder if I’m in love with my best friend!_ because that’s the sort of shit you find in cheesy chick flicks with too much giggling and not enough making out. In other words, that stuff’s all ppbbtttphpbbbbthhthppbbhhllllttttttt _bullcrap_ _._

Dean’s just about to reaffirm just how nonchickflicky his state of mind is when he notices the blonde at the desk near his staring at him in alarm.

"Uh," starts Dean, hurriedly trying to formulate an excuse. 

"Um, are you okay?" Blondie asks Dean as the hunter stealthily slides the book on his desk ( _Speaking to Spirits: How My Husband Was Reincarnated As My Cat, Revised Edition_ by Meryl Backwater) onto his lap and drops it on his own foot.

Meryl Backwater’s story of her feline husband makes a sad  _fuff_ ing sound as the paperback book rebounds lightly off the steel toe in Dean’s boot and tumbles away in a series of depressing bounces.

"Fucking shit!" Dean repeats, then looks back at the girl and explains (just in case she didn’t catch what happened), "I dropped the book. On my toe. It hurt like hell." A pause, for emphasis. "And you sensed that was gonna happen, didn’t you? That’s why you looked at me? Jesus, you got a sixth sense or something?" he asks, hoping blondie is one of the types who thinks she does. 

Apparently, Blondie isn’t. But she’s courteous enough to give a nervous smile before she turns away from Dean. 

Dean grunts and retrieves the  _Speaking to Spirits_ book, opening it to the page he was on before. Even when the angel’s not around, Cas still somehow manages to make things awkward. 

With a sigh, he returns his attention to the book, hoping that Meryl’s ravings about Mr Whiskers licking her bosom the same way her husband had might cheer him up. 

Before he can get further than a few lines, though, there’s a light tap on his shoulder. 

"What?" Dean gets out gruffly, not looking up. 

"Sorry to disturb you, but…" 

It’s blondie, hovering behind Dean awkwardly.

"…would you, perhaps… be interested in getting coffee sometime?" 

Dean finally looks up, blinking at the bright green eyes staring back at him. Blondie’s cute, undeniably, with long wavy hair falling to her waist and elegant curves. But…

"Uh, look, sorry, lady," Dean says, clutching onto  _Speaking to Spirits_ like the book is what’s helping him tell the truth. “It’s real nice of you to ask and all, but I, uh… I kinda got my eye on someone else.” 

"Oh," blondie says with a sheepish smile. "That’s, um… That’s cool. I wish you and her the best of luck, then." 

"Actually, er." Dean hesitates. "It’s a him." 


	26. untitled endverse!gabriel

The first few weeks after the fall are… hard. 

Not to say that the weeks leading up to them were a piece of cake—hell no. Having one’s Grace draining away feels like bleeding dry, really, except with less blood. And it takes longer. An agonizing amount of time longer. 

Gabriel’s not too sure he likes being human. 

 

He feels—brittle. Like his bones aren’t bones anymore, but twigs infected by rot that’ll snap at a moment’s notice. In fact, they do: when he gets hand smashed in a fight for the first time, the pain brings him close to unconsciousness. 

All that power that had once coursed through him—the supernovae in his mind, the volcanos in his heart, the tornados in his lungs and the lightning in his blood—suddenly just… went away. Left him like they were bored, a group of friends outcasting the one that never really fit in. 

And the feeling of rejection stings so bad it might as well be a physical slap in the face. 

Gabriel finds himself feeling tired a lot after he falls. It’s logical, if he thinks about it: no endless amounts of energy to keep him going anymore, especially after a run-in with one of the other groups. It’s logical, but it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense for an archangel to have to patch up his wounds lest a little dirt in them makes him ill. 

Castiel tries to reassure him as best he can around whatever’s flooding his system at any given time. Tells Gabriel that, hey, at least now they can get drunk without having to consume the contents of an entire liquor store; hey, now they can smoke substances without fearing holy condemnation; hey, now they can’t cause orgasms with a snap of their fingers so each one counts. 

For the depressed junkie he is, Castiel can be surprisingly optimistic. 

Gabriel, for his part, can’t find it in himself to follow in the younger angel’s footsteps. He’s broken enough without some self-destruction thrown in.

He’s never been remarkable. He’s not Michael, who’s so righteous that he cast his own brother into Hell; he’s not Lucifer, who’s so self-righteous he put restarting the Apocalypse on his agenda. Gabriel is a fence sitter; the most memorable thing he’s done is  _leave_. 

Even his big act of martyrdom was fake. 

Gabriel understands Dean a bit more, at least. The permanent scowl on the elder Winchester’s face finds its way onto Gabriel’s own, and he finds it increasingly hard to rid himself of it. 

Good moments are fleeting: toasting drinks to small victories with Castiel and Crowley, telling stories of the past ‘round the fire to keep the horrors of the present away. 

The bad ones moments, though—the updates of where Lucifer’s ridden Sam to next, or who’s sworn their allegiance to Abaddon and Michael lately—those ones take an eternity. Some never stop—the look in the eyes of those who’ve had to kill their loved ones is proof of that. 

Simply put, Gabriel’s too weary for war. And he’s never liked fighting much anyway. 


	27. dean winchester has fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by this post by tumblr user youdtearthiscanvasskinapart: "What if Crowley shouted to all the demons in all existence _Dean Winchester is saved_ "  
> also a book on mythology i found

“ _Dean Winchester has fallen!”_

The shout of victory came as an earthquake, and the answering cries of triumph shook even Heaven itself. Just as the angels had once spoken, Crowley’s words were inaudible to humans, instead presenting themselves as entire forests collapsing and tsunamis swallowing up insignificant islands and shores. 

However, other creatures vocalized for the humans what the King of Hell did not: hundreds of banshees’ wailed laments were heard, their screamed grief startling birds from trees, and some humans would swear that among the disrupted fowls swooped groups of Keres. 

The enraged shrieks of the winged hags echoed across the earth in strikes of lightning, for they had not chosen Dean Winchester to fall; and even the creatures who resented Judeo-Christianity understood that this was a fall harder than death. 

And when the Coin-Sìth bayed and howled about the breaking of Dean Winchester’s soul, demons laughed till their throats were so raw a single sound would bring up splashes of blood—for that was when it was confirmed. 

For that was when they knew, just as the Seraph had fallen from Grace and the Boy had learned he would become King, the Righteous Man was no more. 


	28. body-painting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by an image i found on tumblr (posted at the end of the fic)

To cut to the chase, they’re both a little frustrated.

Okay, maybe  _a little frustrated_ is an understatement, because even though Dean’s been telling Cas  _N_ _o,_ _fuck off, I’m not going to be your damn art project, get those brushes away from me before I punch you in the_   _dick, I’m serious, Cas, I_ will _kick you in the pills if you come any closer_  for the past half hour, the kid’s still brandishing his art supplies like deadly weapons and being like,  _Dean, I’ve bought the groceries for the past five months, it’s only fair that you help me pass this class_ , and basically it’s all kinda fucky and Dean needs a drink. 

 

"Dean!" Cas growls, not even bothering to conceal his exasperation anymore. 

"No matter how many times you say my name, the answer’s still gonna be a big, fat  _nope_ ,” Dean throws over his shoulder cheerfully, and accompanies his refusal with a cushion tossed in the vague direction of Castiel’s head, because there’s no way in  _hell_  he’s letting Cas be all up close and personal with him while Dean’s wearing god knows what (if anything! Fuck knows, these artists sure do like people getting their junk out). Like hell is he gonna risk fucking up their friendship just because his dick seems to get the  _Cas is really hot_  message without the sort of seriously important footnote that states  _But he’s_ Cas _, so he’s off-limits._

There’s a weary sigh and some quiet clattering, presumably as Cas drops the brushes on the table. Then he’s rounded the couch and is kneeling in front of Dean, all blue eyes and husky voice as he murmurs, “ _Please_ ,” and, goddammit, Dean can’t say no to him forever. 

"Fuck," Dean says. 

"Is that a yes?"

"Fuck this." 

"I believe that is a yes." 

"Fuck you." 

Castiel smiles, small but bright, like the asshole doesn’t know he’s just damn manipulated Dean into having paint slathered all over himself. “Thank you, Dean. It’s much appreciated.” 

*******

"So what clothes do I gotta lose, huh?" Dean grumbles as he trudges to Castiel’s bedroom. 

"Just your shirt, as the painting will be done on your back, but I suggest you take off your jeans too lest they get stained." Cas hesitates, then explains, "I’m not usually neat while painting. Though I will do my utmost to be this time so as not to inconvenience you."

"Jesus, you want me to get down to my boxers? You sure this ain’t some roundabout way of asking for a striptease?" Dean says as he reluctantly pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside.

Cas looks so genuinely distressed by Dean’s question that the Winchester ends up shooting him a reassuring smile as he unbuttons his pants; though, when he unzips them and shimmies them down and off, he’s suddenly overcome with self-consciousness. Hurriedly, he turns away, fixing his attention on a book on Castiel’s bedside table.  _The Hobbit._ _  
_

"So, uh," Dean says, "where d’you want me? I mean—you want me standing up, or on the floor, or—oh, fuck, this sounds dirty, doesn’t it?"

"Somewhat," Cas confirms, then warm hands are gently pushing Dean toward the bed. "Lie on your stomach." 

As Dean does so, Cas pads quietly out the room; the only announcement of his return is the soft clinking of wood against glass as he wets the brushes.

"The paint may be cold to begin with," Cas cautions, his tone just above a whisper, "but the process should not be unpleasant." 

"Just get on with it, will ya?" mumbles Dean into the duvet, and he can’t help the little wince that goes through him when Cas touches the first stroke of paint to his skin. Just like Cas had said, it’s cold. As fuck. 

But, just as Dean’s about to protest, Cas slides the brush over his skin again, and this time it’s not nearly as bad; in fact, it’s almost soothing as the brush glides down his spine, tickling very slightly. 

Dean’s just starting to doze off, lulled by the rhythm of the brush against his skin, when he notices Cas is humming. It’s not a perfect sound, but every note is accompanied by a stroke of the brush against Dean’s back. Dean opens his eyes halfway, gazing at the wall opposite himself as he tries to place the tune. 

"What’s that you’re singing?" he asks, voice coming out light and sleepy. 

Castiel stops painting. “It’s called  _Believe It or Not,_ " he says, almost sheepish. "It was the theme song for  _The Greatest American Hero._ I apologise for disturbing you.” 

Dean’s eyes flutter shut again, and he yawns. “Keep singing. I like it.”

*******

Dean’s not sure how long he’s asleep for, but then there’s a gentle hand squeezing his shoulder and a voice is whispering his name somewhere near his right ear. 

"Mmmm?" Dean acknowledges groggily, opening one eye to see Castiel peering at him. 

"The painting is done, if you would like to see it." 

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Been wondering what you’ve been up to back there." He starts to push himself up, then comes to an abrupt halt. "Can I move or will I, you know, screw it all up?" 

Castiel laughs, and it’s a rich, full sound, filled with kind of unabashed joy that he doesn’t seem to ever worry about concealing when he feels it. “No, you can move.” 

Slowly, Dean sits up, still unwilling to ruin the painting. As he blinks the last of the sleep out his eyes, Castiel hands him a digital camera. 

Cas says something about needing to touch up the contrast and lighting, but Dean’s too transfixed by the image to take much notice. 

The painting, for all intents and purposes, is simple: a sunset, the ocean, and a tree. But there’s something about it, something Dean can’t quite pinpoint, that makes it breathtaking in its beauty: it’s as if life has been breathed into it through the vibrant oranges and reds and yellows blending effortlessly on Dean’s skin, contrasting against the pale blue of the water and the ebony of the tree. 

When Dean doesn’t say anything, Cas seems to grow nervous, because he starts talking again: “I am, of course, only taking a beginner’s class, and therefore am not very skilled yet, but—” 

Before Dean can think it through, he’s leaned over and is pressing a light, awed kiss to Castiel’s mouth, one hand reaching up to cup Cas’ face.

"It’s beautiful, Cas," Dean says against Cas’ lips, eyes still shut and thumb tracing Castiel’s cheekbone. "It’s absolutely  _beautiful_.”

And Cas’ smile and giddy, “Thank you, Dean,” taste better than any pie Dean’s ever encountered. 


	29. 9.23 alternate ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because this is actually what i thought would happen

When the blade pierces Castiel’s stomach, it’s not met by much resistance. Dean doesn’t know if that’s because angel skin is somehow more delicate than human skin, or if the blade gets sharper every time he uses it, or if his determination to have nothing get in his way makes it that much easier to slice into Castiel before he can hesitate. Nor, in fact, does he really care. 

Because then Metatron is right in front of him, short and grubby and smirking like he’s already won, but he hasn’t—because, next moment, there’s a bright flash of light as the First Blade slams into Metatron’s chest; and the scribe’s mouth opens in a silent scream as Dean twists it, stabs him again and again until he’s gone far beyond overkill because Metatron is  _dead dead dead_  and he’s not coming back, not even if it means Dean has to cut him into pieces and scatter him across the earth.

And Dean’s officially the winner.

Metatron stares blankly up at the ceiling, face slack with a trickle of blood running a small rivulet out the corner of his mouth. His deadness, in a way, feels more solid and true than his existence ever had; his death is splashed with crimson and shredded skin, and it’s  _loud._  Louder than life has the ability to be. 

Dean’s hands shake a little as he stands up, and he uncurls his stiff fingers. The blade clatters to the ground, glistening red in the dim light.

Victorious pleasure wash over him as he takes in the scene, except his gratification is more akin to a junkie finally getting their fix than anything good or normal or even healthy. Metatron’s death shoots through the hunter as if his blood’s been replaced with liquid euphoria, and he’s turning around to tell Castiel of his triumph when he notices for the first time that Cas isn’t moving any more than Metatron is.

It takes a moment for Dean to absorb the sight of Castiel lying still on the ground, but even so, the significance behind the observation rolls right off Dean like water off a duck’s feathers. 

"Cas?" Dean asks, and his voice comes out small and childlike. It’s not what the voice of the man who bears the Mark of Cain should be, but Dean doesn’t care as he drops to his knees beside Castiel. 

"C’mon, Cas," Dean says as he nudges Castiel, ignoring the still-growing red stain on the angel’s shirt. "Don’t be like that. I know you thought this was a bad idea, but I killed him, right? No use bitchin’ about it ‘cause I didn’t do it exactly the way you wanted."

Castiel, for his part, doesn’t reply. 

"Crap," chokes out Dean when the realisation finally sinks in. " _Crap,”_ he repeats, and he grabs Castiel by the lapels of that stupid fucking trench coat and shakes him as if the angel’s merely dozed off and needs to be awoken. 

"Don’t you die on me," Dean warns, face inches from Cas’ pale one. "Don’t you  _dare_  fucking die on me, Cas, or I swear to god I’m gonna haul ass up to Heaven or Purgatory or wherever the hell you lot go when you croak to drag you back here, got it?” 

It’s at this point that Dean becomes acutely aware of the blood spilling out the corner of Castiel’s mouth, running a path that’s almost an exact match for Metatron’s, and it’s at this point that Dean yells at him to  _just fucking reset already, goddammit, you always reset, hurry the hell up, Cas._  

Dean shouts and screams and even tries to lift Castiel up onto his feet again, but nothing is doing jack shit, and the ever-increasing coil of terror wedged in Dean’s stomach eventually overflows in the form of hot, fat tears rolling down his face. 

When he kisses Cas, it’s not a kiss of affection or relief or love like he’d always imagined it would be. It’s a salty, iron-flavoured kiss that tastes like death and panic and grief, and it does absolutely nothing but stain Dean’s lips red with Castiel’s blood. 

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s limp form, head falling to rest in the crook of the angel’s neck, and when he whispers, “Dammit, Cas, I thought I told you I needed you,” the words tumble out his mouth and shatter on the ground as soon as they touch it. 


	30. the thing

Castiel and Dean do this  _thing_ sometimes. This thing where Cas peers into Dean’s room in the middle of the night, all wide blue eyes and dark feathery bedhead that’s sticking up every which way, and he’s got this look on his face that tells Dean the unsaid statement hanging in the cool nighttime air:  _I don’t to be alone._

And because it’s only common decency and Dean can’t get to sleep anyway, he rolls over and pulls back the covers and asks his own silent question:  _So are you gonna get in here or not?_

That’s always the point at which Cas seems to melt. Even though the whole thing is practically routine it’s happened so often, being offered a space in Dean’s bed yet again seems to flip a switch in him. And just like that, all the tension holding his limbs taut like guitar strings strung tight enough to snap rushes out of him in a wave, and by the time he crawls into Dean’s bed he’s a pile of looseness burrowing into the mess of blankets. 

Of course, it’s nothing  _weird_. Two guys can share a bed without it being weird, and anyway, Dean’s pretty sure Cas doesn’t even understand the concept of seduction. So it’s not like Dean’s the designated prey of some nerdy, burger-obsessed temptress. Or whatever the dude version of a temptress is. 

There’s just… something nice about knowing someone is there. Knowing that, if you reach out just a little, your fingertips will brush warm skin or the soft cotton of a t-shirt that’s been worn almost too many times.

And if little pinpricks of electricity shoot through Dean when he accidentally bumps his hand against Castiel one night, it’s only because the contact was unexpected. 

And if they somehow end up all tangled together with Dean’s arms around Cas and Cas’ face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck the next night, it’s only because they’re sharing body heat. Like penguins. 

And if Dean’s lips find themselves pressed against Castiel’s warm mouth the night after that… Well, neither of them can come up with an excuse for that one. But kissing is much more enjoyable than worrying, so they decide not to bother too much with the latter. 

 


	31. goddamn dimples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam in college and meeting Gabe for the first time with Guardian angel!Gabe? —Anonymous

There’s something about the kid that gets to Gabriel. He’s a looker, by all means—movie-star smile, opalescent eyes, freakin’  _dimples,_ for crying out loud. 

But that’s… not what draws Gabriel to him. Maybe it’s something in the shy drop of the kid’s gaze whenever someone compliments him, or the way each of his smiles lights up his entire face—hell, Gabriel doesn’t know. There’s just  _something_ about Sam Winchester that pulls Gabriel to him like a magnet to—another magnet? Whatever. The simile is irrelevant. Point is: Gabriel can’t seem to leave the Sam alone.

And, yeah, Gabriel kicked the whole angel thing ages ago. Said  _sayonara_ to the wings ‘n’ halo gig centuries before Sammy Winchester was even twinkle in his mama’s eye, so there’s really no reason for Gabriel to invisibly sit across the table from Sam in a musty old library like some faithful pet while Sam does his homework.

But, in a shocking turn of events, that’s exactly what the guardian angel is doing. 

And it’s a few seconds later, when Gabriel’s got up to peer over Sam’s shoulder at what he’s working on, that it occurs to him that he may be sort of in love with the college student he’s been watching over since the first time he saw him. 

The moment this thought enters his mind, it’s like floodgates he didn’t even realise were there are opened; and Gabriel’s suddenly under attack by an onslaught of gooey make-believes of him and Sam going on cheesy dates and living some dorky, apple pie life and, well, ain’t that a kicker. Gabriel’s fallen in love with a human. 

If Michael could see what Gabriel has got himself into, he’d probably be plucking out his own feathers by now. 

The thought of a distraught Michael is surprisingly comforting—if it’d ruffle Michael, there’s a good chance Gabriel would enjoy it. So, before he can chicken out, Gabriel makes himself visible and announces: “Well, that looks boring as all hell.” 

Sam starts at the sound of Gabriel’s voice, knee knocking the table he’s working at and sending his pencils flying to the ground. Sam shoots the runaway stationery a dismayed glance before twisting at the waist to blink at Gabriel. “Huh?” he says, staring at the angel like he’s just appeared out of thin air (which, to be fair, he has).

Gabriel stops a rolling pencil with his foot, bending down to pluck it from the ground and using it as a pointer to gesture at the items on Sam’s desk. “A file full of scribbly notes and a book the size of Egyptian limestone block don’t exactly give off the impression of a good time.” He pauses. “I’m Gabriel, by the way.”  

Sam blinks again, then releases a surprised huff of laughter. “Sam. And—oh, uh. Yeah. Law school’s not exactly a walk in the park, and I gotta finish this paper by tomorrow if I have any hope of dodging another all-nighter—”

"Speaking of walks in the park," Gabriel interrupts, twirling the pencil ‘round his finger and flashing Sam a grin, "you think you might wanna accompany me on one sometime in the very near future?" 

Gabriel’s pretty sure he catches a blush creeping up from beneath Sam’s collar, but he doesn’t have enough time to deliberate on it because then Sam says: “It depends.”

Gabriel falters, his confidence slipping for a nanosecond. “On what?”

"If I’m gonna give you my number, Gabriel, I might need that pencil back."

And Sam’s smile is somehow even nicer when Gabriel’s the one it’s directed at.


	32. just the coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wanted prompts, so what about a Sabriel AU where Sam is a lawyer and Gabriel owns a candy and coffee shop where sam goes after work and they talk about their days and cute fluff. Idk just an idea :) —frecklesimpala

Sam just likes the coffee.

It has nothing to do with the cute barista, and it’s just a coincidence that Sam always winds up at Angel’s Grace Confectionery and Café during said cute barista’s shifts. No way would Sam purposefully visit the coffee shop at times he knows Gabriel will be there, because that’s creepy and stalkerish and Sam’s not a creepy stalker. He’s a lawyer, and a very respectable one at that. 

No. Sam just likes the coffee. If Gabriel happens to sidle over to Sam’s table with a plate of “extra” truffles—well, that’s Gabriel’s choice. 

Today’s Tuesday, which means the truffles Gabriel brings over are of the white chocolate and strawberry sort. According to Gabriel, they’re his own recipe, so Sam always makes a point of telling him just how delicious they are. Not like that’s an exaggeration—when Sam bites into the soft chocolate, it’s all he can do not to release a frankly obscene moan. 

"So, tell me, Sammo," Gabriel says as he slides into the chair opposite Sam and folds his arms on the table. "If you’re such a chocoholic, how the hell d’you still look like you live on rabbit food and sit-ups?" 

"I never used to eat a plateful of truffles per day," Sam says, his tone full of feigned accusation. 

At that, Gabriel reaches over and plucks a truffle from the plate, popping the entire thing in his mouth. “Just makin’ sure you don’t get fat,” explains Gabriel through a mouthful of chocolate, and he winks. 

As if following a comfortable routine, they exchange stories about their days: Gabriel regales Sam with a tale of how he accidentally turned his brother’s hair entirely white during an unfortunate mishap with the powdered donuts that morning, and he nearly falls out his chair cackling at Sam’s miserable update on the crush one of the paralegals at the firm, Becky, seems to have developed on him.

When Gabriel finally calms down from his hyena imitation, he asks, “Ever occur to you to tell Miss Rosen you ain’t up for grabs?”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not?” 

"Oh, yeah, about that." Gabriel grins. "How’s about we go on a real date sometime, huh, Samster? Because ol’ Uriel over there’s been PMS’ing about me flirting with you since day one. I was thinking we could watch that  _Sharknado_ movie over a wholesome meal of cookie dough tonight, ‘cause I still haven’t seen it yet and it looks good enough to become a classic…”  _  
_

And, as Gabriel continues to babble on about _Sharknado,_  Sam concedes with a smile that maybe the coffee isn’t the only thing he likes about Angel’s Grace Confectionery and Café


	33. broken and battered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sabriel prompt.. Gabriel is ashamed of his wings (single pair) because they're broken and bloody and one day Him and Sam are just lazing around and Sam asks to see them... Fluffy wing kisses ensue —Anonymous

"Hey, Gabe, can I see your wings?"

The question is completely out of the blue, but even so it turns Gabriel’s blood to shards of ice in his veins. He sneaks a sideways glance at Sam, trying to read his expression, but all that’s visible of the hunter is his legs: sprawled on the crappy motel bed, the upper half of Sam’s body is hidden from view by the wall partition. 

Gabriel tries to still the sudden shaking in his hands as he grabs the soda from the mini-fridge and shuts the door again. He fixes his eyes on an unwashed coffee mug balanced precariously near the edge of the kitchenette’s counter. 

"No can do, Sammo," Gabriel replies, steeling himself and walking back to the bed. "Your senses are just this side of too weak to see ‘em," he continues, tapping his temple with the tip of his index finger. "Sucks to be you, bucko." 

Before Gabriel’s even finished speaking, it’s obvious Sam can see through the flimsy excuse. He props himself up on his elbows, a small frown etching a crease into the skin between his brows. “I’ve seen Castiel’s wings.”

"Well, that’s ‘cause Cas is a seraph. Archangels like yours truly have wings the size of—I dunno, airplane wings, if I’m gonna guesstimate. Can’t make wings visible without making them solid, and it ain’t good etiquette to take out walls and occasionally people wherever I go, now is it, Sammy?"

The lie bounces off Sam without any impact. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Sam accuses, a hint of confused hurt creeping into his tone. “Look, I get it if you don’t want to show me for whatever reason—just. Just don’t  _lie_ about it, okay?” 

Gabriel pops open the tab of his can and takes a swig of soda. It’s sickeningly sweet, and makes Gabriel’s tongue hurt. He gulps down half the can in one go anyway. 

“ _Okay?_ " Sam prompts. 

Once Gabriel’s finished the can, he tosses it in the vague direction of the trash, not really caring if it hits its target or not. He still doesn’t look at Sam as he quietly says, “Samster, look. My wings—they ain’t exactly up to scratch, if you know what I mean. I haven’t groomed them since I left Heaven because I was scared I’d get bust, and they’ve pretty much been in the wars ‘cause I couldn’t afford to maneuver around things in case people started asking questions.” 

"So?" 

“ _So_ ,” Gabriel grits out, turning a glare on Sam, “they look like shit. And I don’t want you seeing them ‘cause I don’t want you looking at me different after you do. That simple enough for you, or will me drawing it in bright colours captioned with simple words explain it better?” With a snap of his fingers, a flip chart appears in the center of the room. 

 

The challenging expression on Sam’s face melts away and he sits up, reaching out to place his hand atop Gabriel’s. Gabriel flinches, tempted to yank away, but instead he just waves the flip chart out of existence again. 

"Gabriel," Sam says, and his voice is soft like he’s dealing with an agitated child on the verge of a tantrum. 

"What?" Gabriel snaps, his irritation egged on by the walking-on-eggshells element to Sam’s approach.  _Tell me there’s nothing to be afraid of_ , he dares mentally.  _Go on, Sam, load whatever bullcrap you got on me. I’ve heard it all._

"There’s nothing to be afraid of, Gabe." 

"For the love of  _Christ_!” Gabriel exclaims.

Gabriel’s anger must show in his eyes, because suddenly Sam looks startled. 

"Oh," Sam murmurs. Gabriel is just about to ask him what he’s  _oh_ 'ing about, but he's cut off short by a muffled  _whack_. Gabriel jumps up in alarm, swiveling around, and he’s half in a fighting stance by the time he notices that his wings don’t have their usual translucency; instead, they’re entirely opaque now, large and amber and shining in the light. They’re raised and pricked forward like the ears of an alert horse, broken and ruffled feathers fanning out in a display of dominance over whatever made that noise.

He becomes aware of the picture frame lying on the ground, having been knocked off the wall by something.

"Shit," Gabriel breathes when he puts two and two together, pulling his wings flat against his back and facing Sam again in an attempt to hide the blood-streaked feathers—but it’s a useless endeavor, because the injuries from which the stark liquid still trickles weakly are fully visible, ugly and glaring out at the world. "I didn’t mean to—" 

"They’re beautiful," Sam says simply, cutting Gabriel off. 

Gabriel’s attention snaps back to Sam. “Huh?” 

Sam gets to his feet, approaching Gabriel carefully. He leans down and drops a kiss on the top of Gabriel’s head; the archangel peers up at him, startled and questioning. He allows his wings to relax a little though, no longer pressed tightly against his back.

"Gabe, your wings—they’re beautiful," Sam repeats slowly, a sort of awed look entering his eyes, and Gabriel thinks the deliberateness of the hunter’s words might irritate him if they weren’t such a relief. Sam reaches up a hand then hesitates, asking Gabriel a silent question:  _Can I touch them?_

When Gabriel shrugs, Sam gently pushes his fingers through the feathers despite the dried blood caked in them. It feels like an itch finally being scratched, and the effect is instant: with a small sound caught somewhere between a happy croon and a purr, Gabriel leans into Sam’s chest and arches his wing up into the touch. He can hear a laugh reverberating through Sam, the sound hollow yet rich in his big chest, but he can’t bring himself to care about anything other than the feel of Sam’s fingers carding through his ungroomed feathers. 

"You’re bleeding," Sam states after a while, and he sounds annoyingly like he wants to do something about that.

“‘M always bleedin’ a little,” Gabriel mumbles into Sam’s shirt, already lulled into a sleepy daze. He lifts his wing slightly, insistently pushing it into Sam’s hand in an attempt to get Sam to start stroking the feathers again. “S’no big deal.”

"That’s gotta hurt, though, right?" 

"Who gives a crap?" Gabriel yawns, shuffling forward and pushing Sam backward till they’ve both toppled over onto the bed, the small drafts of air caught in Gabriel’s wings breaking the fall. 

"Okay, how about this," Sam says, amusement tinting his tone bright. "You tell me how to patch up your wings, and I’ll try to groom them just the way you like, alright?"

Gabriel considers this offer, thoughts hazy with sleepiness. On one hand, he doesn’t want Sam to stop stroking his wings long enough to fetch the first-aid kit from the Impala, and cleaning the wounds sliced across the extra-sensitive appendages will probably hurt like a bitch. 

But on the other, it’ll be nice to have his wings look like they’re the beautiful, celestial things they are again—like the wings of an  _archangel_  rather than an overaggressive, scraggly vulture that picks too many fights for its own good. 

Eventually, Gabriel comes to a decision, and rolls off Sam. Not bothering to move his face from the mattress, he grumbles, “No detours or I’ll smite your ass, which’ll suck for the both of us ‘cause I happen to really like your butt.” 

The only response is a chuckle and an affectionate scritch in the feathers near his right shoulder blade.

 


	34. dick is (unsurprisingly) a dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yoooooooo could I hit you up for a little hs!au sabriel???? (side destiel optional) —slysketchart

Sam isn’t exactly sure  _why_  the shortest Novak boy suddenly decided they were buddies, he just did. One day in freshman year, he sat down at Sam’s table at lunch, introduced himself as Gabriel, and started chattering away like they’d known each other their entire lives. And that was that. 

Not that having Gabriel as a companion is unpleasant—occasionally difficult, maybe, but the ball of electricity within the boy that makes him somewhat hard to handle at times is also what gives him his charm. Gabriel sweeps through life, exuding confidence and drawing attention to himself as easily as honey enticing flies closer in promise of a good time. 

Maybe this is why it always comes as such a surprise when Gabriel’s confidence ebbs, becoming nothing more than a thin veil weakly attempting to hide his unease. 

"It’s barbaric, Sammy, I swear," Gabriel bites out, bitterness hanging onto his words like a needy toddler.

"Hmm?" Sam says, pulled out of his book by Gabriel’s complaint. He finds himself slightly startled by the agitated jerkiness to each of the boy’s movements as he marches across the field. There’s a glint of anxiety mixed in with the amber of Gabriel’s eyes as he turns a halfhearted glare on Sam. 

"Gym class!" Gabriel exclaims. "They’re speaking horseshit when they say it’s to  _keep us fit_ ,” he says, accentuating the quote with a mocking imitation of the principal’s British accent. “Forty minutes throwing rubber balls around ain’t improving anyone’s health, I can promise you that, Sammo. They’re just making us run around like a buncha assclowns for their own sick enjoyment. And now the sadistic bastards are victimizing me ‘cause I was too ill to take part in their DIY Hunger Games this semester.” 

"You haven’t been sick in three years, Gabriel," Sam tells him. "You got Balthazar to write you fake doctor’s notes all semester."

"Still don’t mean they should be able to fail me if I don’t try out for the swim team!" says Gabriel, sounding almost betrayed that Sam would point out the lack of legitimacy to his unfortunate semester-long series of illnesses. "What, they really think  _I’ve_ got some hidden talent as a swimmer? Gimme a break.” 

Sam offers him a consoling smile. “Look, It’ll be over in twenty minutes. Less time than an episode of  _Friends_. And I’ll even wait for you, okay?” 

Gabriel’s only reply is a dissatisfied grunt, but some of the tension seems to melt from his shoulders. 

***

The shit hits the fan when Gabriel walks out the changing room in a pair of red and black swimming school trunks that are just this side of too tight.

 

Sam, sitting on the bleachers and absorbed in his setwork book again, is only alerted to Gabriel’s arrival by the sound of slow clapping. He looks up to see a handsome, black-haired boy he vaguely recognises saying something he can’t quite hear to Gabriel. 

Gabriel’s response, however, is audible: “You know, Dick, I gotta say—your parents sure picked an accurate name for you.” 

"Oh,  _that’s_  why you’re here,” Dick replies like some great realisation has just dawned on him. He smiles, all patronising smarm, and says without an ounce of genuineness, “I appreciate the compliment, Gabriel, but I’m afraid to say I don’t—swing that way, as you’d put it.” 

Obedient laughter erupts from the boys behind Dick, and Gabriel seems to puff up defiantly as he replies, “You know, Dicky-bird, you and your boys might want to lay off the constant circlejerkin’ before we all drown in a sea of spunk. And, I dunno about you, but that certainly ain’t how I wanna go.”

Before Dick can reply, Gabriel turns away from him and fixes his attention on some scrawny guy swimming through the pool who seems to make up for his lack of skill with a bucketload of unrelenting determination. 

Sam relaxes again. He’d been tensed to stand up and interfere, but he should have known Gabriel would handle it. Gabriel’s a human firecracker; he wouldn’t be cowed into submission by Dick’s teasing—

"Leave him be, Edgar," Dick says, much louder than necessary. "You can hardly expect him to have a cheery disposition, having been dealt a hand in life like his. If Iwas fat and gay, I’d be unpleasant too." 

Sam’s can’t tell if Gabriel’s listening or not till the boy swings ‘round to stare at Dick for a moment. Then, Gabriel mutters something that looks like, “Screw this,” and strides off.

By the time Sam’s fully processed what just happened, Gabriel’s disappeared out of sight, and it takes Sam a few minutes to find him. 

"Gabriel?" Sam calls into the changing room. He peers inside and finds no sign of his friend, but before he can leave, a tight response echoes out to him. 

"Just—forget about it, Sam, okay?"

Relieved, Sam ducks into the changing room and makes his way over to the shower cubicle from which Gabriel’s voice emanated. 

At the sight of Sam, Gabriel makes an offhand comment about the Winchester having a voyeurism kink and continues to tug his pants up over the swimming trunks he’s still wearing. 

"They’re douchebags," Sam states, not bothering to respond to Gabriel’s wan joke. 

"Wow, congrats on having eyes, Sammo."

"—but they’re not worth failing gym over." 

Gabriel’s eyes immediately snap up to meet Sam’s, his gaze acidic. “Fuck gym!” he half shouts, the dryness in his tone replaced by sharp anger and something a little shakier beneath it. “And fuck those asswads out there, and—and you know what, Sam? Fuck you, too, ‘cause you got no right to preach to me about what I can and can’t do when I’ll bet everything I’m worth you’ve  _never_ had a bunch of morons without a braincell to share between ‘em making fun of you ‘cause you ain’t a male model. Yeah, fuck you too, Sam.” 

Gabriel hisses out a frustrated puff of air when he finds he’s put his shirt on inside out, but Sam grabs his wrists before he can start wrestling with the item of clothing again. 

Despite the glower Gabriel fixes on him, Sam meets the boy’s eyes. “Gabe—who gives a crap if you look like a male model or not?”

"Says you and your Taylor Lautner six pack," mumbles Gabriel, but his retort lacks the fierceness of his earlier outburst. He feebly tries to pull his arms out of Sam’s grasp, but Sam holds him fast, ducking his head to force Gabriel to look at him again.

“ _No one_  gives a crap that you aren’t freaking Ryan Gosling—no one important, at least,” Sam adds. “Gabriel, you’re smart, and funny, and you’re always the life of the party, and you’ve got good taste in movies even if you purposefully pick the weirdest title of the lot just to dick around, and you’ve got a great singing voice, and seeing those dumb drawings you leave in my locker every day is pretty much the best part of my morning, and… and…” 

Sam trails off, staring at Gabriel. He’s wearing an expression Sam isn’t used to seeing on him, something tentative and self-conscious, and Sam’s never realised what a startling shade of gold Gabriel’s eyes are.

Without stopping to think, Sam closes the distance between them, brushing a careful kiss to the soft swell of Gabriel’s lower lip. It’s chaste and innocent, but Gabriel tastes like sunlight and candy apples and Sam wants to drink in the flavour for as long as he can.

Then Gabriel pulls away slowly, a grin already quirking the corners of his mouth up. The two look at each other for a moment. 

"Well," Gabriel murmurs eventually. "Who’da thunk, Samster. I turned you gay." 

A bark of laughter escapes Sam, startlingly loud as it bounces off the tiles on the wall, and he gives Gabriel’s shoulder a light shove. “Asshole.” 

But he can’t even pretend to be pissed, not when Gabriel’s wearing a beaming smile like that. All Sam can bring himself to do is lean down to taste that smile again. 

(This kiss, however, turns out to be markedly less innocent than the last.)


	35. blind dates don't actually suck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sabriel Prompt: HS AU first date? I'm cringing, srry, I don't wanna bother you —Anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this 'verse, gabe and dean are seniors while cas and sam are juniors.

By the time Gabriel arrives at the library, he’s in a horrendously bad mood because despite how many times he’d told Cas,  _Cas, there are literally a_  thousand  _things I’d rather do instead of going on a date with your boyfriend’s little brother_ , Cas had been relentless, and when he’d turned those big blue eyes on Gabriel with that utterly pathetic pleading look on his face, Gabriel had had to give in because denying Cas something that obviously this much to him would probably earn Gabriel a one-way ticket to hell.

So now he’s sitting in some painfully quiet little library café—what the hell kinda guy chooses a  _library_  as a venue for a first date? Couldn’t the kid just ask to meet up at the movies like a  _normal person?_ —as he waits for this mysterious Sam to show up, and he feels like a major ass because is his love live  _really_  so pathetic that his nerdy little brother feels the need to set him up, and, great, some freaky tall but also helluva hot guy has just walked in, and it’s just Gabriel’s luck that he can’t go near him because he’s supposed to be on a date with—

"Hi," the hot guy says sheepishly, and, holy shit, he’s talking to Gabriel. "Are you, uh, Gabriel, by any chance?"

Oh. 

 _Oh_. 

_Well, thank you, Castiel!_

"I can be whoever you want me to be, hot stuff," Gabriel purrs, then immediately wants to smack himself in his face with something large and preferably spiky because that sounded even worse than it did in his head. 

But, as if whatever god’s up there has decided to smile down upon Gabriel and his ridiculous flirting skills, Gabriel catches sight of a blush reddening the tips of the guy’s ears and creeping across his high cheekbones. 

"What I meant is—yup, that’s me," Gabriel adds when he remembers that he should probably reply. "And I’m guessing you’re Sam?" 

"Yeah, um. Yeah, I’m Sam," says apparently-Sam, rubbing the back of his neck and flicking his gaze between his feet and Gabriel’s face. 

Gabriel offers Sam a reassuring grin, picking up on his nervousness. “In that case, kiddo, take a seat.” 

As Sam nods like sitting hadn’t occurred to him until Gabriel suggested it, Gabriel takes the opportunity to give the kid a onceover. His observation from earlier turns out to be an understatement—Sam’s not just tall, he’s  _massive_ , all long limbs and broad shoulders. 

And if that’s not enough, he’s even better looking up close, sporting a shaggy mop of chocolate-coloured hair that flops in his hazelly blue eyes. But he’s pale, hands fiddling anxiously with his flannel shirt as he fidgets in his seat.

Gabriel studies Sam a moment longer, then leans forward in his seat. “Look, no offense, kid, but you kinda look like you’re gonna barf, so uh—you think you can keep it down or should I go get you a bucket?” 

The dry joke thankfully seems to have the desired effect. Sam looks Gabriel in the eye for the first time today, a surprised laugh escaping him and—Jesus Christ on a cracker, he’s got  _dimples_.  _  
_

"No, no, I’m fine," Sam says, relaxing a little. He drops his hands from where he was straightening his shirt. "I’ve just, um, never done this before." 

"What, gone on a date?" 

"Gone on a date with a guy," Sam corrects. "I mean, I guess I’ve kind of always known I’m not, you know, a solid zero on the Kinsey Scale, but…" 

"You’ve never tested the waters more than checking out the occasional dude’s ass?" Gabriel guesses. 

Another amused smile lights up Sam’s features, this one without half as much tension as the previous. “Yeah, exactly. So my brother, Dean, he, uh—he suggested I meet up with you for a meal sometime. Said you were a huge asshole—”

"Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence, Deano," Gabriel mutters.

Sam’s smile turns apologetic. “But he also said you had it in you to be a good guy when you wanted. So, ah… Here I am,” he finishes, gesturing to the table they’re sitting at.

"Huh," Gabriel says. He relaxes back in his seat again, unwrapping a toothpick from a little jar in the center of the table and chewing on its tip. "Just one question, Sammo: outta all the places we coulda met up, why’d you pick a library?" 

Sam blinks, brows knitting together. “I thought you picked the library,” he says, and it comes out like a question. 

It doesn’t take long for Gabriel to figure out who chose the location, and when he does, he sighs. “Dammit, it would be just like Cas to choose some obscure meeting place, wouldn’t it. Freakin’ kid hasn’t got a clue what the world  _normal_ means.”

"I dunno," Sam says, looking around with a lopsided but freakishly adorable quirk to the corner of his mouth. "I kinda like it." 

And, suddenly, Gabriel finds he likes the café a whole lot more than he did ten minutes ago. 

***

They end up having three drinks each. And lunch: rabbit food for Sam and a bowl of spaghetti for Gabriel—which, if he’s honest, he only ordered so he could deliver a golden  _Lady and the Tramp_ line he had set up (the line ends up earning him a laugh from Sam, so Gabriel deems it a success). 

By dessert, they’re sharing, Gabriel sneaking spoonfuls of Sam’s chocolate mousse and nudging forkfuls of cheesecake into Sam’s mouth as repayment. 

It turns out Sam’s got a thing for H.P. Lovecraft and is scared shitless of clowns; and, to Gabriel’s surprise, he finds himself confessing his desire to travel once he graduates to Sam while the kid listens intently. 

"So," Gabriel says as he walks Sam back to his car, a sleek black thing he’s seen parked outside his house whenever Dean comes over. "What’s the jury’s ruling on going on dates with guys? _Sucked ass worse than I could possibly imagine_ , or, you know,  _Pretty good_?” 

Sam shoots him a sideways look, eyes warm. “I’m leaning toward the latter.”

When they finally reach the car—a Chevrolet, by the looks of it—Gabriel can’t help his grin fading a little. Despite his internal griping about going on a blind date earlier, he’s sort of disappointed the afternoon has come to an end.

They say their goodbyes and Sam unlocks the car, and Gabriel’s just starting to think he’d overestimated Sam’s enthusiasm about the afternoon when the kid turns back around to face him, scuffing the tarmac underfoot with the toe of his shoe. 

"Uh, Gabriel," Sam says. 

"Yeah?" 

"Today was fun."

"Was kinda, yeah, huh?" 

"And I was wondering if you’d like to… uh… do it again sometime?" 

At that, Gabriel has to actively restrain his grin in case his face splits in two. “Sounds good to me, Sammo.” 

Sam nods, a quick, short movement—then, before Gabriel knows what’s hit him, Sam has ducked forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, so light Gabriel might think he’d imagined it if Sam wasn’t still flushed crimson by the time he gets into the car. 

As Gabriel walks home, the spot on his cheek where Sam kissed him tingling like the skin’s been electrically charged, he comes to the conclusion that he’s gonna be in Castiel’s debt for the next fifty years at least.

And Gabriel’s not nearly as bitter about the realisation as he thought he’d be.


	36. obligatory pretend dating au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YOU should write a "Pretend Dating" Sabriel .... Please I like your writes and you should be confident, as I read your writing it inspires ME to write —Anonymous

"Trust me, Sammy, this ain’t exactly a walk in the park for me either," Dean says. "Thinkin’ of you cozying up to the asshole that killed me over a hundred times makes me throw up in my mouth a little, but hey, what can ya do? If you wanna draw out a homophobic ghost, you gotta get a li’l gay." 

Sam lets an agitated breath hiss out between his teeth as he tries to tamp down his frustration. “If you’re so insistent on one of us pretending to be into dudes,” he says with a measured calmness he doesn’t feel, “why don’t you and Cas go be bait?”

Something unidentifiable flashes across Dean’s face, but it’s gone as soon as it appeared. Then he leans forward, conspiratorially, and says, “Look, I’d love to take one for the team. I really would. But between you and me, Cas, he, uh—he’s got this habit of blurting out the truth at the worst of times, you know? And I’m not too sure he’s a good enough liar to pull this gig off.”

"He lied to us for over a year while he was working with Crowley," Sam deadpans. 

Dean waves his hand like he’s batting Sam’s point straight out the air. “Details, details. We bust him in the end, didn’t we? Besides, it’ll probably be easier to convince ol’ Farmer Thacker that you’re the gay brother of the litter, considering how—” He gestures at Sam’s entire form in one sweeping motion, “— _you_ you are. And you and Gabriel have that whole  _love to hate you and hate to love you_ thing going on, so it might not even take that much work to begin with.” 

Sam ignores Dean’s jibe, opting instead to ask, “Yeah, about that—how do we know it even  _is_ this Bartholomew Thacker guy racking up the bodies?” 

"Gee, I dunno, Sammy! I mean, kids being hacked to death and having their throats slit for good measure matches Thacker’s M.O. down to a T, and everyone that’s been ganked in the last three months was openly gay, which is a perfect compliment to Thacker’s notorious homophobia, and, oh, yeah—all the killings took place  _on the site where Bart Thacker’s house was.”_ Dean throws his hands up in the air. “But, yeah, me putting my money on this Thacker dude being the one that’s icing all these kids is just wishful thinking.  _Definitely.”_

Groaning, Sam slumps back in his seat, the cheap red plastic of the diner’s booth chair squealing at the movement. “We don’t even know where Gabriel is, Dean, let alone if he’ll agree to help us,” he offers as one final, weak protest.

"That’s why we’re gonna summon his ass and refuse let him out a nice little ring of Holy Fire till he says yes," Dean states simply, reaching over to pat Sam on the arm with a grin. 

Sam glowers at his brother, hoping his sour expression communicates just how much he hates Dean right now. But before he can actually say anything, there’s a snapping sound, like the type those rubber poppers make, and suddenly there’s a person sitting in Sam’s lap. 

"No need to be so rash, Deano," Gabriel chastises, leaning back against Sam’s chest comfortably. If he notices the way Sam flinches like he’s just been burnt, it doesn’t show. "If you’d just asked nicely, you’d’ve found I’d be happy to help. I’m nothing if not a helpful guy, after all." 

"Well," Dean says with a smile, "if it isn’t everyone’s favourite douchebag." 

"Nice to see you boys too," Gabriel replies chirpily, sliding off Sam’s lap and grabbing Dean’s beer to take a pull from it. "So, what’d I miss?"

***

"So, lemme get this straight," Gabriel says eventually, a French fry dangling from the side of his mouth like a makeshift cigarette. "You want me to get all loveydovey with Sammy over here—"

"Don’t call me  _Sammy_ ,” grumbles Sam, shooting Gabriel a sharp look that Gabriel seems to ignore entirely.

"—for the sole reason that it’ll get Casper the Not so Friendly Ghost rearing to give us the ol’ slice-‘n’-dice?" 

"That about sums it up," Dean says. 

Gabriel bites into the French fry, chewing contemplatively for a moment. When he’s finished swallowing, he asks, “Tell me again why I wanna help you?” 

Sam is half tempted to interrupt the conversation his brother and the archangel are having without him, convince Gabriel that he very much does not want to help them and that he should just go on his merry assholeish way before he and Sam have to so much as look at each other again. 

"Because we’re being pretty damn nice by not shivving your ass right here and now," Dean says. 

Gabriel barks out a laugh. “Do my ears deceive me, or are you two knuckleheads  _actually_  trying to threaten me? Bucko, in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve got a pretty crap track record when it comes to getting me to pop my clogs.”

Dean smiles. “Keep coming back like a bad smell, don’tcha, Gabe?” 

As Gabriel retorts something about  _Flattery will get you everywhere, Deano_ , Sam switches his glower from the archangel to his brother. Since when did he start calling Gabriel  _Gabe?_  What, are they having some sort of bonding experience over Sam’s raging discomfort with the situation?

Petulantly, Sam crosses his arms and wriggles a bit in his seat in the childish hope that the incessant squeaking of the cheap plastic will disrupt Gabriel and Dean’s banter. 

Leaning forward to smirk at Gabriel, Dean finally says, “Okay, fine, how’s karma as an incentive?” There’s a triumphant light behind the green of his eyes, like he’s already won. Despite himself, Sam feels his curiosity being piqued; now that he thinks about it, Dean’s confidence throughout the entire conversation so far has been weird, considering the volatile nature of the archangel they’re trying to do business with.

Gabriel seems to pick up on the proud look in Dean’s eyes too, and puffs out his chest a little. “I’m an angel, dumbass—the whole Judeo-Christian thing ring a bell? Karma ain’t exactly on my list of concerns.”

"In case you haven’t realised, you’re a certifiable serial killer." Dean’s grin widens, Cheshire cat-like. "What with all the douchebags you iced." 

"Keyword being  _douchebags_ ,” Gabriel points out, tone suddenly frosty. “They deserved what they got.” 

"Look, I get that your whole perception of good and not-good is about as accurate as an acid trip, but even you gotta admit that the sewer crocodile was toeing the line of  _unnecessary_. Besides, I thought Raguel was the Angel of Justice,” Dean adds. “And, speaking of the God Squad—what’re you planning to tell Big Daddy when he gets home from His extended vacation, huh?  _You left and everyone was fighting so I threw a tantrum and ran away to gank a couple hundred thousand of Your favourite pets because I felt like it, welcome back!_ ”

Gabriel bristles instantly. “Slow the flapping of that big mouth of yours, Deano, or you just might lose it altogether.” He hesitates. “Killing humans justifiable if it’s the result of divine orders.”

"And how, exactly, were you getting any divine orders when  _the Divine_  itself was on a hike to Timbuktu?” Dean beams at him, preening under Gabriel’s harsh stare. “So, Gabe, how’s a couple extra brownie points under your belt sounding now?” 

Gabriel opens his mouth, a defiant scowl creasing his brow, but just before he speaks, his gaze slides to Sam. Sam uses the opportunity to funnel as much acidity into the look he shoots back—and maybe that’s what causes surprise to spark through him at Gabriel’s response to Dean. 

"Guess it wouldn’t hurt to balance out the scales a little," Gabriel says, though his words lack the sincerity everything else he’s said today has had. 

His golden eyes are still locked on Sam. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unfinished. i'll get 'round to writing more...sometime.


	37. croatoan day contribution

The end comes in drips and drabs for Dean Winchester and Castiel. 

It starts out as the sharp bite of cheap booze and bitter laughter, and it’s virulent with the alien flavour of strangers smeared on Dean’s lips. It’s tangy with betrayal, but as the (now somewhat ironic) phrase goes:  _Monkey see, monkey do._

Castiel sees, and Castiel does. 

But this time, he isn’t simply using Dean as a benchmark for how to behave, mimicking him so he isn’t the odd one out. Castiel isn’t an angel anymore, no, not after his Grace trickled away like water dripping out a gutter with too many leaks. Castiel isn’t expected not to be petty or trivial about things that are largely and abundantly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, because Castiel is human and no matter how much that hurts it becomes steadily more and more apparent that  _no one gives a fuck._  No one gives a shit whether Castiel is content, and even less people give a shit if he’s unhappy.

The world seems to have declared a war of indifference against Castiel, an unrelenting assault against which his only weapon is the smile he stole from Jimmy Novak. 

So he retaliates, and he retaliates hard. 

Castiel learns to take and grab and let greed run through his veins instead of the worthless crimson liquid that seems to spill out at too harsh a flap of a butterfly’s wings; the only times he gives is when he’s met with Dean’s own selfishness, and even then it’s bruising grips and bites that draw blood.

Whispered  _I need you_ s and  _I love you_ s are replaced by insults that are less out of actual malice and more because the two don’t know what else to fill the heavy air with, and what was once a fireworks display’s worth of sparks becomes the coals of a dying fire: not bright enough to keep one warm, but still dangerous to touch. 

They’re like a volcanic eruption and a hurricane trapped in a cardboard box, both competing for dominance but neither ever quite getting there because the only thing keeping them together crumbles a little bit more under every push.

Their love for one another other loops back ‘round to a twisted, codependent sort of hate that keeps them clinging to each other despite how each touch scalds them, and the day Castiel realises this just happens to be the day the fight goes out of him entirely. 

The rest is just a matter of numbing himself till the only emotion he remembers how to feel is a longing for it to just be over already; and, eventually, Castiel finds the answer to his wish in the form of a foolhardy plan to kill the devil. 


	38. "angel"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by a post i can't find about demon!dean calling cas "angel" in his deep, gravelly voice.

Dean’s voice has never been high, no. At least, not as long as Castiel has known him. His voice has always been gruff and growly, permanently set at a low octave that Castiel objectively understands to be attractive. 

But now, Dean’s voice is different.  _Dean_  is different, with his black eyes and a strange combed-back haircut that Castiel doesn’t recognise on him, but despite all the changes in his human the only thing Castiel notices time and time again is that Dean’s voice sounds like how sandpaper feels, and it has an odd tendency to send shivers spiking up Castiel’s spine.

"Well, hey there, Angel," Dean says when Cas walks into the room. There’s a smirk perched atop his gravelly words, and he snaps closed the butterfly knife he was examining. 

"Hello, Dean," replies Castiel. He hesitates, then asks, "Why do you call me  _Angel_  now? You never used to.” 

"What, birdy don’t like his new wings? I’d have thought you’d be pleased as punch to be rockin’ the whole toga look again. Even if you did steal your harp from some other poor bastard." Dean raises his eyebrows and smiles a smile that’s far too innocent for the words that have left Castiel smarting. 

"My—new wings are fine," Castiel says, averting his gaze. Instead of focusing on Dean, he fixes his attention on a fray in the duvet on Dean’s bed. "And they have nothing to do with with my question."

Dean sits up, folding his arms across his chest. “Speaking of questions,  _Angel—_ you in my room for any reason in particular, or didja just swing by to tell me I’m pretty?”  _  
_

Castiel is almost certain the jibe arises because Dean can hear the irregularity of Cas’ pulse, so despite his earlier reluctance to bring up the topic he plows ahead: “We’ve found a cure, Dean. Sam and I—we know how to reverse your current… _state._ " 

He feels a pair of green eyes boring into him, then Dean flops back to rest against the pillows again and crosses his arms over his chest. “Here’s an idea—how’s about you and Sammy shove your marvelous cure where the sun don’t shine, doc? I’ve told you before and I’m telling you again: I ain’t interested in powering down, Cas, ‘cause—to put it delicately—being human sucks a dick. Request denied.” 

"Dean, this—this  _isn’t_   _you_ _!_ " Castiel snaps, momentarily unable to control his frustration. Then he remembers to tamp down his emotions, to  _B_ _e reasonable, Castiel; he won’t listen to you otherwise._  ”Roles reversed, if Sam were in your place, you would be dragging him to Cain by the scruff of his neck if need be,” he gets out measuredly. 

"Cain?" enquires Dean.

Seizing his chance before he has time to be cautious, Castiel hurriedly informs Dean, “Cain can take back the Mark if he so pleases; it’s simply a matter of convincing him to do so—”

Dean barks out a laugh, abrasive and loud in the small room. He gets up, paces over to Cas like a large cat stalking its prey. “Angel, that old geyser ain’t gonna give you or Gigantor out there the time of day, capiche? ‘Sides, last time I saw Grandpa Joe, he told me he’d stick me with my own knife if I ever came near him again. Sorry, Charlie Bucket, but no Golden Ticket for you.”

“ _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,_ " Cas murmurs. Sourcing the reference is the only thing he can think to do as he stares up at Dean. The demon is standing too close, far too close. Normal Dean would be shying away by now, normal Dean would be making some offhand remark about  _P_ _ersonal space, Cas, Jesus, how many times do I gotta tell you_ , normal Dean wouldn’t be looking at Castiel’s lips like that, normal Dean—

"Huh, I forgot Cas-ipedia got a pop-culture section," remarks Dean bemusedly. If possible, he steps even closer, a purr tinting his words seductive. "Pop quiz, Angel. In  _Dead Calm,_ why’d Nicole Kidman seduce Billy Zane?” 

"It was an attempt to take advantage of him. To save herself," Castiel says, flinching slightly as Dean adjusts the lapels of his coat. He can feel the heat of Dean’s fingers seeping through the fabric. 

"And how’s that fairing on your moral compass, eh, Angel?"

"Rae was in danger," Cas mutters, torn between leaning into Dean’s lingering touch and yanking away. "It was her only method of self-defense in that moment." 

"Right, ‘cause Hughie might’a hurt her if she kept playing Passive Princess, right? She had to outsmart him somehow." 

"I suppose—" 

Before Cas can finish his sentence, Dean’s lips are on his, tongue pushing into Castiel’s mouth and sweeping around like he owns it. It’s messy and uncoordinated, certainly far from perfect, but Castiel can’t seem to find it within himself to pull away because those shivers that rake up his spine at Dean’s every syllable are now branching out, intermingling with the blood in his veins and sending a tight, hot feeling down to coil in his stomach. 

Castiel’s hands lift up to slide through Dean’s hair of their own accord; and, without so much as an iota of permission from Castiel, come to rest on Dean’s chest and push him backward till they’re both toppling onto the bed. 

A husky laugh slips out from between Dean’s lips, settling on Castiel’s tongue like Greek ambrosia. “That’s more like it, Angel,” he praises, rewarding Castiel with a nip to his lower lip that’s all too much and not nearly enough at the same time. 

Castiel can feel Dean’s hand sliding beneath his trench coat, hot through the thin fabric of the angel’s dress shirt as Dean presses him closer. Castiel straddles him in a halfhearted bid for domination, drinking in the flavour of his human—

Not his human. 

Not a human at all. _  
_

A demon.

_This isn’t Dean._

Sharply, Castiel pulls back, scrambling away from the creature on the bed so fast he finds himself feeling dizzy. He levels a glare on Dean, who’s watching him with a debauched smile, all kiss-swollen lips and eyes sparkling with amusement. 

"Why did you do that?" Castiel demands. 

"Self-defense," Dean replies simply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and sitting up. "Also, because I wanted to."

Cas snorts derisively, chagrined that he’d allowed himself to be fooled by the demon’s tricks so easily. “Wanted to since about five minutes ago, I presume?” 

"Nah, a little longer than that. I’d place my bet on…" He makes a show of counting on his fingers, "about five years, give or take. Just never had the balls to try my luck till now." 

Not responding, Castiel scrutinizes Dean. Demons lie. Often, and without shame or hesitance.

 _But this isn’t a normal demon... right? This is Dean._ His  _Dean._

"Hey, Cas?" Dean pipes up when Castiel doesn’t say anything. "You wanna know why I call you  _Angel_?”

Castiel eyes him warily. 

"It’s ‘cause I can see your halo." Dean grins and makes a twirling motion with his index finger, then points at Castiel’s head. "It’s sitting all askew now. I guess that’s ‘cause making out with demons ain’t too good for your angel cred, huh?"


	39. katie experiments in midam (alt. 'untitled')

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi katie, how are you on this fine day? I'm here to prompt you on that thing so here it is: michael and adam are back from the cage and somehow they stick together afterwards. They are in a motel or in a bar or smth, and adam is drinking his feelings away. Somehow he and michael end up sharing a bottle and /talking/ the more drunk adam (or both) gets. I'm sorry it's a bit vague, any questions you have I'm here! —why-not-sabriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) i went with real!adam rather than ghoul!adam, hence adam's slight assiness in this fic.  
> b) i've never written adam before and i'm awful at characterizing michael so um... sorry.

"I was going on the assumption that you were too young to drink alcohol." 

Adam doesn’t falter at Michael’s sudden comment; after all, he’s grown used to them. Used to the archangel’s habit of speaking only after he’s observed long enough. 

He can feel Michael watching him, eyes dark and probably filled with that same unreadable look as always. 

"Well, I’m no expert on the intricacies of the church," Adam replies eventually, rubbing his thumb along the mouth of the bottle, "so don’t take my word for it—but isn’t it kind of a thing in Christianity for underage kids to drink?" 

Michael glances away, considering. “To some extent, yes. But that wine is blessed. I’m going to hazard a guess and say this—” He gestures to the cheap-brand alcohol Adam’s holding, “—was not.” 

Adam lifts the can and studies it for a moment. “Who knows, maybe a priest had a part-time job at a booze factory and went around blessing random bottles and cans.” 

No laughter. As usual. 

"You know something I’ve never been able to figure out?" Adam asks, looking up at Michael. The archangel’s gaze flicks back to him, prompting him to continue. 

Adam hesitates for a moment, sipping his drink, then carries on, “Why you keep hanging around me if I get on your nerves so much.” 

"And you’ve come up with that theory—how?" Michael enquires, tilting his head very slightly to the side in a way that’s kind of birdlike. How fitting for an angel. 

"I dunno, you just always seem sorta pissy. Hardly comes off as if you enjoy my presence." 

"I’ve been told that that is my general aura, so you needn’t worry that it’s exclusive to you." Michael leans forward. "May I?" 

"What? Oh, yeah. Okay, if you want. Just don’t finish it all," Adam tells Michael as he hands over the bottle. 

Michael makes a noncommittal sound and presses the bottle to his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tips back the alcohol. When he sets the bottle down again, there’s such a potent look of displeasure on his face that Adam can’t help the laugh that escapes him. 

"What, not used to crappy goof?" asks Adam in amusement.

"Humans must have…  _very_  low standards when it comes to what they put in their bodies.” 

Adam shrugs. “People put poison in their skin to stop wrinkles. McDonald’s exists. It’s all about the here and now, really.” 

"The  _here and now_ , in this case, tastes like century-old vinegar,” mutters Michael with a curled lip as he shoots the bottle a sour look. 

"Century-old vinegar that gets you drunk quickly. And that’s the important bit." Adam sighs, settling back into his chair and scrubbing his hand over his face. Ever since he’s been topside, a perpetual sort of tiredness has clung to him. Even Michael seems to be affected by it, keeping to himself save for the times when one of them tries to initiate a conversation because the silence has gone on too long. 

One evening, a couple months after they’d bid the Cage goodbye, Michael had told him that it wasn’t an exhaustion any amount of sleep could fix. It was one that affected the core of their beings: Michael’s Grace, Adam’s soul. 

"You’re drinking to get drunk?" Michael says, interrupting Adam’s brooding. 

"I thought that part was obvious. I mean, no offense, Michael, but you’re not exactly the world’s best drinking buddy." 

"Why?" A pause. "Why are you aiming to get yourself intoxicated?" clarifies Michael. 

"Reality… just isn’t that great at the moment. Maybe it’ll look better through beer-goggles. Or whatever-this-stuff-is-goggles." Adam laughs dryly, taking another gulp. "Guess I’m a Winchester now. John would be proud." 

Michael doesn’t seem to be listening to Adam’s rambling because, soon, he’s speaking over it: “Avoiding your problems isn’t the way to solve them.” 

"Oh—don’t start on that, alright? You faced your problem with Lucifer—or God’s problem with him, whatever—and it landed us in Hell for a couple millennia, which wasn’t exactly fun for either of us. So just." He holds the bottle out to Michael. "Shut up and get drunk with me, okay?" 

Michael studies the bottle for a moment, then carefully takes it, pausing momentarily when his fingers brush over Adam’s. “Okay.”


	40. the irony of an angel's demon deal (alternatively titled "cas has a gigantic demon!kink")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help for your demon!Dean fic: Cas discovers he can get his grace back by making a demon deal. Dean is all, "oh sure man anything to help" and there's a battle of wills over whether Cas trusts Dean enough to give his soul back when the deal is completed (shades of Crowley and Bobby). Kissing is involved. Dean refuses to give back his soul. Cas gets all righteous BAMF of the lord. Do it. —deanswingsbothways

Dean’s words are like a thread of twine, wrapping around Castiel’s neck in a boa-constrictor vice and drawing him closer with every gravelly syllable. 

"C’mon, feathers, what’s the problem? You don’t trust me?" Dean asks, feigning hurt as he circles Cas, his loose-limbed, lazy steps out of place in the charged air of the junkyard.

"You’re a demon," Castiel states. Now without the advantage of seeing Dean’s true face, he has to make a conscious effort to remember what exactly he’s dealing with. He calls to mind an image of black mist, making the figment of his imagination enshroud Dean’s form as a reminder of what his companion truly is. 

Dean pauses mid-stride, one foot hovering a couple millimeters above the ground as he gives Castiel a curious tilt of his head. “Well, gee, Cas, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what makes me the sorta guy you wanna go to for a deal. Unless you know a vamp who’s dishing out contracts, that is.” He pivots on the ball of his foot to face Castiel, previously clasped hands falling to hook thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. 

"You’re a demon," Castiel repeats, then clarifies: "I have no reason to trust you." 

"You’ve saved my ass a couple’a times now," Dean says, and shrugs. "Let me do you a solid. Repay my debt. ‘Sides, why wouldja want to go to all the trouble of finding and convincing a powerful-enough demon to help you when you already got one offering to do it for the sake of good karma? Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘ _K_ _eep it simple, stupid’?_ " His pupils dilate, inking his eyes black, and the cocky smile he throws in Castiel’s direction lands innocently at the fallen angel’s feet. "It ain’t called the KISS Principle for nothin’, sweetheart." 

The cartilage between Castiel’s bones turns to rubber cement, stiffening his movements as he tugs at a loose thread unwinding from the hem of his thin t-shirt. The striking humanness of his own fiddling catches Castiel off-guard, and it’s what pushes him to hastily conclude that even gold-leaf promises are preferable to his spelter reality. 

Not allowing himself the chance to rethink his decision, Castiel grates out a hoarse, “Fine,” and before he has time to draw a breath Dean is standing right in front of him, so close their chests are almost touching. 

"Fine?" Dean asks, and there’s a note of smug triumph in his tone. 

"Fine—I agree to your terms." Then, trying to sound firm, he repeats Dean’s deal: "You are in brief possession of my human soul while you restore my Grace, and, upon completing doing so, you will return my soul." Castiel hesitates before adding lowly, "And, in return, I shall spare you your life." 

Dean’s fingers dance along Castiel’s shoulder, coming to rest on the back of his neck. Castiel becomes so hyperaware of the contact that he almost doesn’t hear Dean’s laughter.

“That last bit’s new,” Dean says, amused, and he brushes his thumb along the line of Castiel’s jaw. “’Least being human hasn’t taken too much of the fight outta ya. Now, here’s to hoping you’re just as ballsy when it comes to locking lips with your Righteous Man as you are in your head.” 

The old title bears nothing but mockery as it leaves Dean’s lips, though that isn’t what makes Castiel tense. “What do you mean?” asks Cas, bristling defensively at Dean’s implication of cowardice and the knowing taunt behind it. The words puff out his mouth like small clouds of smoke, pearly in the cool night air and obstructing Dean’s face just long enough that Castiel doesn’t see the way the demon’s mouth crooks up in a smirk. 

"Guess you didn’t know angels ain’t the only ones that can dreamwalk, huh?" Dean says by way of explanation, and any reply Castiel might have had is pulled back into his lungs in the form of a startled gasp when Dean crushes their lips together. 

By all means, Dean should be cold. After all, the body pressing itself closer to Castiel, cupping the fallen angel’s face in its hands and kissing him with demanding, skillful insistence is nothing more than a costume for the creature within. Dean is dead, corrupted by the Mark of Cain and stabbed by Metatron; his flesh should be devoid of warmth, waxy and tight, but the lips moving against Castiel’s in no way feel like those belonging to a corpse. 

Dean’s mouth is hot against Cas’ own, already wetted from Castiel’s clumsy attempt at keeping up in the fast-paced kiss; however, despite Cas’ inexpert return, Dean seems undeterred. He winds his fingers in Castiel’s hair, tugging lightly, while his other hand falls to the human’s waist and steals under Cas’ t-shirt to grip his hip almost bruisingly. 

Castiel can’t prevent the sound that escapes him at the near pain; Dean drinks in the moan, growing bolder for it and pushing Cas back against the door of a beaten-up old Lincoln. The gravel underfoot crunches loudly, as if annoyed by Castiel’s stumbling footsteps, but the noise is as noticeable as a gnat in one’s peripheral vision because all he can think about is  _Dean Dean Dean._  

It’s not a sweet kiss, no, it’s far from the cherry chapstick brush of April’s and the surprised brevity of Meg’s; this kiss is lecherous, biting of alcohol and the metallic pepperiness of gunpowder’s scent. There’s a taint to it, something that stings every lick and nip and press of kiss-swollen lips into a shock, an unexpected spark that sends pleasure raking through Castiel’s body and curling in wisps of heat in his stomach. 

Cas wants to get high on the drug-like darkness Dean tastes of, swallow it down until he’s so intoxicated that the ground seems to disappear beneath his feet and the world is spinning around him. He pulls Dean closer, the hotness of Dean’s body against his front and the coolness of the car’s metal pressing into his back resulting in a sensory overload that makes his knees grow weak; and when Dean grinds the hardness of his crotch against Castiel’s, it punches a sound so raw and desperate out of Cas that he barely recognises it to be his own voice. 

Dean laughs, and the sound tastes like the sharp buzz of electricity; then, drawing a protesting whine out of Castiel, he pulls away with a murmur of, “Easy there, cowboy.” 

Unable to form a coherent response between his shaky pants of breath, Castiel just tugs at the lapels of Dean’s shirt jacket in a weak demand for more as he stares dizzily up into Dean’s face.

"Pretty sure that sealed the deal well enough," says Dean, pressing his finger to Castiel’s lips when he tries to lean up for another kiss. Cas half considers sucking Dean’s finger into his mouth, something that, despite its objective strangeness, feels right in the moment. Before Cas gets the chance, though, Dean steps back and continues, "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got a stolen Grace to go find." 

Dean pauses to rake his gaze up Castiel, who’s still slumping back heavily against the Lincoln’s door for fear that he might fall over entirely without the extra support. “By the way,” Dean adds as an afterthought, “you ain’t too bad at this for a guy that’s only been fucked once.” He grins, and the nighttime darkness makes his eyes look black.

It’s only when Dean disappears into thin air does Castiel remember that the blackness of his eyes didn't necessarily have to be a trick of the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will add the rest of the chapter when i get 'round to writing it


	41. even the perpetually smashed angel knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay so basically i wanted to write agender!cas being a shit and maybe nsfw??? but as it turns out _i'm_ the shit and this is probably never gonna get finished whups  
>  takes place in the endverse!2012/2013ish; inspired by cas' line about dean getting over trying to label him

“Hey, Cas, what’s it like to fuck who’s the same gender as you are?” Dean asks one night. His words sound muffled and confined in the echoless cabin, as if they’re a handful of tightly-packed damp sand.

Castiel cracks an eye open to look at Dean, then he tips his head back, bearing his tanned stretch of neck to the dim room as he blows the smoke out of his mouth. Cas watches the grey wisps reach up for the ceiling for a moment, studying how the hazy tendrils seem to grasp at the yellowy light in the air. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“Bullshit,” says Dean, mildly surprised by Castiel’s lie. Usually, the fallen angel doesn’t bother to conceal his promiscuity, oftentimes even reveling in it. “I saw you and Yeager sneaking off after dinner last night like a couple’a horny teenagers.” 

Snorting, Castiel holds his cigarette between his teeth as he stretches, languid. His reply whistles a little around the obstacle of the crudely-rolled cigarette in his mouth. “Yeager’s a man, Dean. I’m not.” 

“Uh, look, man, I ain’t saying I’ve ever downright examined your junk, but I’m pretty sure that’s a dick you got packing down there.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Castiel starts, sounding bored, “that gender and sex are not synonymous?” 

“Can’t say I’ve spent too much time thinkin’ about it,” admits Dean after a moment.

Cas says, “My body is male. I, on the other hand, am not. Nor am I female, before you ask.”

“So, what—you’re a robot or something?” asks Dean, growing confused. He sits up in his chair, the warming can of beer in his hand now forgotten. His eyes rake over Castiel’s lazy form where it sprawls in the moth-bitten armchair that bears too many suspicious stains to be savoury, then lock with a dozy blue gaze.

Cas hums. “I’m a fallen angel. And a drug addict and an alcoholic too, I suppose. Some might apply the the term  _slut_  to me, though I can’t say I’m too fond of that label. But I’m not a man or a woman.” He pauses. “Or a robot, for that matter.

"So, to reiterate what I said earlier," continues Castiel, "I wouldn’t know what it’s like to fuck someone of my own gender, given the fact that I don’t have one and have not yet met anyone who openly identifies as I do. However, I’m going to assume you were asking if cocks are a turn-on for me, seeing as I’m in possession of one myself—in which case, I can tell you that, yes. They most certainly are." A sly smirk curves his lips as he takes in Dean’s reaction to his crassness, and the once-alien expression now holds a sort of sleepy dissoluteness that makes Dean’s skin buzz as if with static. 

Dean looks away hurriedly, silent for a while before asking in an undertone, “What happened to you, Cas?” 

"I realised that the stick up my ass could feel good if I positioned it just so," Cas replies, husking out a laugh. He takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke rings into the air like inverted commas for what he says next. "Falling from Grace is indeed a fall, Dean. When you hit the ground, it hurts, just like it’d hurt if you fell off a steep cliff. Perhaps even more so," Cas adds with a wry smile, seemingly remembering a memory Dean does not share. "So why shouldn’t I try to dull the pain? Why shouldn’t I toast absinthe to Baudelaire, Jarry, Hemingway? Why shouldn’t I let marijuana sing me to sleep or heroin help me forget that the world is crumbling around us like an ancient wall?" 

Castiel leans forward suddenly, bright eyes glinting with newly-acquired mischievousness and tone scandalous as he asks, “Why shouldn’t I suck a cock if that’s what I want to do?” 

Heat steals up Dean’s neck, creeping out from beneath his collar, and he hopes the flush he can feel staining his face crimson isn’t too visible in the candlelit room. “Jesus, Cas,” he mutters, taking another pull of his beer. “Ever hear of a thing called over-sharing?” Then, with a cough, he questions warily, “So, you try’na tell me you’re gay now or something?” 

Pushing out an exasperated huff, Castiel drops his cigarette and grinds it out beneath his boot with a practiced twist of his ankle. “Not everything is so black and white, Dean. I’d have hoped you of all people would know that by now.” But there’s no real contempt behind his words; in fact, the fallen angel sounds more amused than anything else.

"There’s Croats and demons and the Devil, and then there’s us," Dean snaps. "Seems pretty damn black and white to me." 

"That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it." Cas gets to his feet, padding over to Dean and kneeling on the ground before him. It should, by all means, be a submissive position, but there’s a daringness behind the way Castiel watches Dean through lowered lashes. "Gender, sexuality—they’re not only  _either or,_ Dean, they’re  _both, all, sometimes, none…_  They fluctuate, they’re fluid; they change over time. Dean, they—” 

Dean draws in a sharp breath when Cas sets a hand on his knee, and he jerks back to press his back flat against the chair’s splat, his beer sloshing around in its can. He can hear his heart thumping, a metronomic beat so loud it rattles his brain in his head, and Cas’ palm feels like it’s searing another handprint into his leg.

"Alright, thanks for the PSA, I get it," chokes out Dean, voice cracking a little. "You like tits and dick and you don’t have a gender, great for you. Now would you mind not sitting in my lap?" 

Cas smiles innocently. “I’m not sitting in your lap just yet,” he says, “but I can, if that’s what you want.” 

Before Dean can object, Cas gets to his feet swiftly and seats himself in Dean’s lap, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders. His eyes shine with something that verges on smugness; however, Dean can’t find it within himself to push Castiel away, to make a derisive comment, to do  _anything_  but just stare at the fallen angel and feel the heat of his body against his chest.

Cas doesn’t seem deterred by Dean’s lack of reaction. “Now I’m sitting in your lap,” he says simply, then adds, voice lower, “If you want me to move, I will.”

Dean doesn’t respond for a moment, instead allowing his gaze to follow Castiel’s features like they’re points in a game of Connect the Dots. Tousled, floppy hair; blue eyes slightly spacey but shimmering with interest nonetheless; straight, sharp nose; pink lips and pinker tongue swiping out to wet them; scruff-peppered jaw. He doesn’t need to look down to learn of the lean planes of Castiel’s chest and stomach, barely concealed by his thin cotton shirt, for an image of Cas’ slenderly-muscled physique automatically springs to mind. 

"Nah," says Dean, gruffly, quietly. "You—you can stay." 

A smirk slowly tugs at the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and he murmurs, his words coming out on a quiet breath of laughter, “Dean Winchester, I cannot begin to comprehend how you still think you’re straight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus points to those who remember who yeager is


	42. his teardrops have filled oceans

gabriel is tornados tearing apart lands and waves turning great big boulders to sand and dangerously bright fires licking at the night sky. he has a volcano in his heart and lava in his veins, and his eyes burn brilliant with the stardust of the galaxies he once cupped in the palms of his hands like premature infants barely strong enough to draw breath into their own lungs. he’s a thousand-dimensional being beyond comprehension, and sam can’t believe he ever forgot that. 

it was easy at the time to block out the fact that the gabriel isn’t even the same  _species_ as sam. easy to pretend that cocky smiles and golden eyes are all gabriel has to him (even if his smiles are always haunted and those golden eyes overflow with an oil-and-water mix of wisdom and insecurity) because the alternative sends terror spiking through sam and makes him feel claustrophobic about his own ant-like existence. 

sam may have saved the world, but gabriel knows what the universe was like before it was even created. and that makes every instinct in sam scream at him to  _run, run, get away from that fucking atomic bomb before you get blown to pieces!_

but sam doesn’t run. he stands rooted to the spot, watching hurt and anger that could raze down mountain ranges unfold in gabriel. 

"what the hell is that supposed to mean, sam?" asks gabriel, voice dangerously quiet. 

the argument seems stupid now. gabriel didn’t want to tell anyone about their relationship yet, and sam should’ve just accepted that, but no, he had to get angry, he had accuse gabriel of being ashamed of sam and being a coward and all sorts of ridiculously unfounded shit—but if he’d stopped there, things would be all right. if he’d stopped there, sure, gabe might’ve been in a pissy mood for a couple of days but it would all blow over like it always did. 

but, no, sam didn’t stop there. sam said what he knew would hurt most:  _i should’ve known you’d try to run away from this too. that’s what you always do, isn’t it?_

and it worked. by god, did the blow hit its mark.

"i just— gabe, i didn’t mean it, okay?" sam says, a touch desperately. "i wasn’t thinking. i let my emotions get out of hand, and i said some dumb crap to—"

"you piece of shit," gabriel murmurs, his voice like a low roll of thunder that reminds sam that this guy has more power than ten nuclear reactors put together in a single eyelash. "you absolute fucking  _piece of_ — you know what? i shoulda seen this coming. i shoulda fucking seen this coming. i mean, how could i expect  _you—_ the great sam winchester, whose brother went to  _hell_ for him—to know what it feels like when your siblings barely notice you’re gone ‘cause they’re too busy trying to murder each other? i guess i thought you’d at least  _try_ to put yourself in my shoes, seeing how you ain’t got the best track-record with sticking around either, but it seems i was pretty damn mistaken, huh, sammy? wouldja look at that. fuckin’ a!” 

sam doesn’t reply, instead vaguely noticing the dull electrical crackling in the air and wondering how gabriel is going to kill him. gabriel must read his mind, though, because then he’s barking out a harsh laugh that blows one of the lights in the room out. 

"i’m not gonna kill you, sam," gabriel says dryly. "i’m in love with you. remember how bad i suck at killing the people i love?" he pauses a moment, ensuring that his "death" at the hands of lucifer comes to mind. 

"so what  _are_ you gonna do? forgive me?” sam asks, pessimistic disbelief seeping into his tone. 

the corner of gabriel’s mouth crooks up, though the smile holds no mirth. “hell no. i’m going to run away again—after all, that’s what i always do, isn’t it?” he parrots back, then disappears without a sound, though the echo of his anger doesn’t evaporate with him; instead, it hangs heavy and thick in the room like an overfull storm cloud. 

sam numbly notes just how much he’s screwed up—and that this time, jumping into hell won’t solve anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse everything being in lowercase; it fitted the story more, I think.   
> Also, I'm trying out a new style to fit my upcoming novel since one of the protagonists loves metaphors, so I need to insert metaphors into prose from his POV. So, yeah, excuse all the similes and metaphors in this one.


	43. pour some sugar on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: if you're still doing that prompt thing: frottage/grinding for any reason, any pairing <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics in this are from “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard and “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails (and I strongly suggest [listening to the latter](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccY25Cb3im0) when you get to the bit in this where it starts playing).

There was no way Dean could have anticipated the outcome of taking an angel of the Lord to a nightclub.

It seems fucking hilarious at the time. Watching Cas squinting around at all the grinding twenty-somethings and asking Dean what he’s supposed to turn down for and what turning down even means—to Dean, it’s more entertaining than anything cable TV could provide.  _  
_

(Besides, when Dean earlier pitched the idea of a night out to Sam, it was like someone flipped the bitchface switch—which, of course, only convinced Dean further to drag Cas out tonight because anything that Sam disapproves of must be fun.)

So here they are in the middle of a place creatively named Pulse, lights strobing out over them and the bodies surrounding them and staining Castiel’s trench coat with tie-dye patterns of luminescent green and red. 

The music is shit and Sam isn’t here because he’s still sulking about Dean “abusing Cas’ trust” and Dean’s mouth tastes like the cologne and smoke in the air and he’s long since abandoned his sobriety, and he’s having a grand old fucking time, honestly, and Cas looks more confused than usual and might even be a little tipsy himself.

Dean’s mind is coated in a pleasant haze from hitting his alcoholic sweet spot, the kind that replaces all his worries about the world imploding on itself for some reason or another with the irresistible urge to tunelessly belt out the lyrics to songs he doesn’t know, and he’s content to just raise his glass and grin and watch the mesh of dancing bodies around him—till he realises he recognises the husky voice and strumming strains of guitar belting out over the speakers. 

_Love is like a bomb, baby, c’mon, get it on  
Livin’ like a lover with a radar phone—_

"Holy shit," Dean says. 

Cas looks at him questioningly. 

"They’re playing Def Leppard, dude!" exclaims Dean, and before Cas can ask whatever question is obviously bubbling up in him, Dean’s downed the rest of his drink, grabbed Cas by his sleeve, and dragged him out onto the dance floor. 

They don’t really dance; Cas just remains very still, listening, and Dean yells along to the lyrics. 

“ _Pour some sugar on—_ Whoo!” Dean laughs, glancing at Cas and leaning over to speak in his ear. “You gotta dance to Def Leppard, Cas.” 

What Dean isn’t expecting for Cas to murmur a gravelly, “All right,” back and for him to tug Dean closer to himself. 

"Whoa there, buddy," Dean says, but his voice catches in his throat when he looks up at Cas’ face and sees that Castiel’s pupils are blown wide beyond the dark-induced dilation Dean has gotten used to over the course of the evening. 

The song dissolves into another, a pulsing, alien beat that reverberates through Dean’s bones. 

_You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you_  
 _You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you…_

"Cas, what’re you doing—" starts Dean, but he’s silenced when Cas pulls their hips flushed in an imitation of the people dancing around them and fucking  _rolls_ against Dean. The fluid movement pulls something into place in Dean, snapping all his senses to Castiel. 

Dean doesn’t know how he didn’t notice this earlier, but Cas looks like sin walking in the flashing lights. His hair is sweat-dampened and messier than usual, wild around the eyes that watch Dean with steady concentration. His lips are parted, and as Dean watches, his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. 

_I want to fuck you like an animal_  
 _I want to feel you from the inside  
I want to fuck you like an animal…_

Dean slides his hands ‘round to rest on Cas’ shoulder blades, pressing Cas’ form closer to himself. Somewhere along the line, Cas must’ve abandoned his trench coat and suit jacket, because now all that separates his skin from Dean’s palms is a thin layer of cotton that does nothing to hide the toned muscles of Castiel’s back. 

This time, Dean is the one to move his hips against Castiel’s. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, but going commando tonight was either the best or worst idea he’s ever had, because the drag of denim against his cock already has him half hard. A low, uncontrolled sound escapes Castiel at the movement and he melts against Dean, hot breath puffing in pants against Dean’s neck. Cas rolls his hips again, and again, seeking friction in time with the throbbing music. 

"Cas," Dean hisses, the word barely scraping out his throat. Cas lifts his face and Dean doesn’t hesitate to crush their lips together, dragging his hand into Castiel’s thick hair and licking his way into Cas’ mouth. 

Whatever assumptions Dean might’ve harboured about Cas being inexperienced and chaste are shoved unceremoniously out of his mind by the hot slide of Castiel’s mouth against his own messy and wet and fucking  _incredible,_ and Dean doesn’t know who taught Cas to kiss like this but he sends whoever they are a silent thanks anyway.

The world dissolves, disappearing so it’s just them existing in a timeless bubble of contact and pulsating music—and then Dean remembers that it’s not just them and that they’re far from alone. Remembers that they’re in public, making out and rutting against each other like a pair of teenagers, and maybe that thought should make him want to tear away but it doesn’t, it doesn’t, it just shoots lightning bolts of excitement through him and straight down to his cock. 

Cas drops his face down to mouth kisses against Dean’s neck, his stubble a delicious scrape against the sensitive skin, and  _fuck_ but if Dean wasn’t achingly hard already, he sure as hell is by now. He can feel Castiel’s erection against his thigh, too, and without thinking he reaches down between them to palm against it through the scratchy material of Cas’ pants. 

Cas makes a long, low, needy sound, caught somewhere between a growl and a whine, and his entire body goes taut. He clings to Dean, fingers digging into Dean’s arms hard enough to bruise, and it takes several ragged gasps and a sticky warmth spreading over Dean’s hand for the thoughts in Dean’s head to finally click into place. 

 _Jesus fucking_ _Christ_ , Dean thinks.  _I just got a fucking angel off._

That realisation, paired with the way Cas still hangs onto him like he’s his lifeline, is what sends Dean over the edge. His vision whites out momentarily, and then he’s coming in his pants like he’s a goddamn fourteen-year-old. As the waves of pleasure roll through him, he’s vaguely aware of the feeling of a pair of lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against his collarbone, but only when he finally grounds himself does he feel the whispers of, “ _Dean_ ,” Cas is murmuring against his skin.  _  
_

Though Dean’s eyes droop heavily, he forces himself to lift his face from where it’s pressed into Castiel’s hair and look around to see if anyone noticed what they were doing. No one seems to even be aware of their presence.

"Cas," asks Dean after a couple moments, mouth right against Cas’ ear so he doesn’t have to speak too loudly. "What was that?" 

Cas sags against him sleepily, looking up to blink at him with drowsy blue eyes. “I poured some sugar on you, Dean, like the singing man said to do,” he says. “Was it… sufficient?” 

Dean stares at him, unable to control his laugh. “Yeah, it was. It… it was pretty freakin’ sufficient, Cas.”


	44. tears of angel grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this as a writing exercise at 5 a.m. Warnings for major character death and a graphic description of cremation.

dean’s tears are hot hot too fucking hot and they sear burns down his cheeks like they’re comets with trails of blazing fire or lightning or angel’s grace and he wishes he could pour his angel grace tears into the blood staining everything sticky because maybe then castiel’s eyes will open maybe then castiel’s lips will form his name again maybe then dean won’t be so  _fucking fucked up_ that he’s laughing over the limp body in his arms and “look, sammy, look, he finally got that stick out of his ass long enough to joke around!” and “dean, cas isn’t joking” and “tell him to wake up now, sam, because this isn’t funny anymore” and “dean—” and “ _wake the fuck up, cas, this isn’t funny, you piece of shit, wake up wake up wake up”_ and

*** 

Dean’s drunk again. He’s drunk, and the world is a ball of plasticine clumsily crafted by the fat little fingers of a young child. 

There’s a knock at his door. 

“S’open,” grunts Dean, not looking away from the spot in the wall he’s been staring at for the past however many hours. He’s certain that, if he looks long enough, he’ll be able to witness the world deteriorating right before his eyes. Plasticine isn’t built for forever. 

“I know,” comes Sam’s voice. “You broke your door.”

“The door broke itself,” Dean says. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t care. 

The mattress dips beside him, and then Sam’s too-big form and too-worn face and too-worried eyes are right there. “Dean…” he starts, soft. “I don’t want to push you, but we’ve got to cremate Cas’ bodysoon.”

“It’s not Cas’ body. It’s Jimmy Novak’s body.” 

Sam hesitates, and now without voices to accommodate, the air nags at Dean. Its staticky-silent whine grows more frantic with every nanosecond of quiet until it’s screaming and roaring through his ears, and it sounds like it’s being tortured.

“Then we need to cremate Jimmy’s body,” Sam says, shattering the pained shrieking of the silence. 

“Why? There’s no ghost to haunt it.” 

Sam almost sighs. He doesn’t, because he’s too polite to, but Dean thinks he wants to. “Because after all the two of them have done—Cas and Jimmy both—they deserve a proper send-off.” 

Dean laughs, the sound scraping out his throat like it’s wrapped in sandpaper. “Well, ain’t that a fuckin’ prize.” 

“What?” 

“All the shit we go through and the big reward at the end is being set on fire.” He looks at Sam. “Sammy, you’re smart. You know what happens during cremation? When your body’s on fire?” 

Dean doesn’t wait for a response. “Your body dries out, first, then your skin tightens and gets all waxy from the heat. Then it discolours, blisters and splits, or it’s vaporised entirely.

“After that, your muscles are the next to go. Those things, they char like pros. While that’s going on, your limbs are extending and flexing the whole time, because your muscles tighten as well.”

Sam tries to cut in, “Dean—” 

“Then your bones. Those calcify when they hit the heat, and they flake and crumble. That’s when we bury what’s left of the skeleton, ‘cause we can’t just sit there grinding up skeletal remains to make pretty ashes, can we, Sammy?” 

The glass in Dean’s hand somehow finds itself smashing into the wall. 

“So all of what Cas did,” says Dean, watching glass granule-infused whiskey slide down the wall. “All of what Cas went through, and his final reward is nothingness and a half-assed cremation. Awesome.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything after that, or maybe he does and Dean just doesn’t hear him, but either way he leaves a while later. 

Dean drinks straight from the bottle. 

***

They cremate Jimmy’s body and Cas’ metaphorical one and bury the skeleton with a simple wooden cross at the head of the grave a few miles outstate. Sam cries some, Dean feels like he’s going to throw up and then he feels nothing at all and they go home. 

Dean wants to kill something but Sam says  _we should take a break, Dean, at least until this blows over_ and Dean says  _what the fuck, Sam, Cas being dead isn’t going to just “blow over”_ but Sam’s eyes are sad like something’s pulling apart at the seams inside him so Dean doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he watches crappy movies on pay-per-view and tries not to think about anything till his thoughts are slamming against the inside of his skull demanding attention and finally he says, “You stupid son of a bitch.” 

There’s no one in the room to respond. 

“You stupid son of a bitch,” says Dean again. “Why the hell did you think ramming yourself in front of that angel blade would do anything useful? All you did was get yourself killed.” 

He sucks in a breath of air through his teeth and rubs at his eyes, pushing down any opportunistic tears that might think to spring up.

“And if you can hear me—which you probably can’t, but if you can—and you’re thinking you saved me, you didn’t. All right? Taking a blade to your stomach didn’t do anything but get blood everywhere. So don’t think you martyred yourself heroically because all you did was be a dumbass and that’s it.”

“It just… it would’ve been a whole lot more helpful if you’d just lived,” finishes Dean, all malice draining from his words. “And—I’m sorry. Okay, Cas? I’m sorry I got you killed. I’m sorry my habit of getting the people I care about killed screwed you over in the end as well.”

“Dean…” comes a quiet voice. Dean starts, Cas’ name forming on his lips before the voice registers as too high and smooth to be Castiel’s gravelly tones.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean snaps, heart slamming against his ribcage. “Ever heard of knocking?”

Sam ignores the hostility. “You didn’t get him killed, Dean.”

“Yeah? ’Cause I’m pretty sure he’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me.”

“This already sounds shitty in my head, but—Dean, no one forced Cas to throw himself in front of that blade. He made the choice to, because he cares— _cared_ about you.”

Dean remains silent for a couple seconds, then grumbles, “It sounded shitty out loud, too.”

Huffing out a small laugh, Sam makes his way over to the bed and sits beside Dean. “It’s true, though. Cas—he really cared about you, Dean. I think… I think he might’ve even loved you.” His voice gentles at the end, wary but needing to get the words out anyway.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says.

The surprise is written all over Sam’s tone. “You do?”

“Guy showed as many emotions as your average brick,” says Dean. “When one or two finally managed to sneak through, they were about as unnoticeable as a fuckin’ floodlight shining directly in your face. And… Jesus, I’m gonna sound like I’m in some weepy YA novel, but—I kinda loved him too,” he admits.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to say, “I know.”

Dean’s eyebrows shooting up questioningly.

Sam gives him a smile that verges on sheepish. “You’ve never been good at hiding that sorta stuff. Not with Cassie, not with Lisa, and definitely not with Cas.”

“Oh. Jeez. You coulda mentioned that before, Sammy.” The words are fond, but Dean shakes his head. “I just wish I’d worked up the balls to tell him before he went and got himself killed, you know?”

“Dean, anyone within a five mile radius of you two would’ve been able to figure out that you loved him. I don’t think Cas was any exception.”

Dean drops his gaze, and the smile that creeps onto his lips feels foreign. But not bad. Definitely not bad. “I sure hope so,” he says. “Thanks, Sammy.”

“Sure, Dean.” Before Dean can object, Sam pulls him into a brief, tight hug, then gets up again. “There’s, uh. There’s some pie in the kitchen. I was on a supply run and I thought I might as well get you some. It’s pecan, if you want any.”

Dean looks at his brother—his brother Sam, who overflows with ridiculous amounts of kindness and care and patience—and he says, “Yeah. Yeah, some pie sounds good right about now.”

And he swears to god that, in that moment, he can hear the faint rustle of wings.


End file.
